


New Beginnings

by Still_and_Clear



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Drama, Eventual Romance, Kind of Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Finale, Psychological Drama, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-16 20:04:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 24,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4638441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the showdown at the warehouse, Jim and Oswald have both looked to make fresh starts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I finally decided to try something multi-chaptered and with a plot. Any comments gratefully received - and I'm happy to chat :) I go by sunlitroom over on Tumblr

Jim straightens his tie in the mirror before he leaves for work. He is well rested, exercised and keen to face the day, as he has been every day since the showdown, since he resolved to re-dedicate himself to his cause. He is focused, determined - a force to be reckoned with. He looks grimly at his own reflection and the steel in his own eyes. 

A faint feeling of loss clings to him, though. He brushes it off, and tells himself that those early months were a waste of time, anyway, all compromises and complications and trying to fix things broken past repair, and that _this_ is the fresh start he really wanted when he came back to Gotham, with a clean sense of purpose. He gets up early, works out, runs to work and then attacks every day with a vengeance – rigid, unwavering, Falcone’s words ringing in his ears. He doesn’t bother trying to befriend any more of his colleagues, now, or lead by example – just eyes them with contempt and thinks of the day he can rid the department of them. His days are straightforward, and his nights are methodical preparations for the next day of work. It’s almost like being in the army again, except that he’s on this mission alone, and he has none of the camaraderie and warmth he found there.

The responses of those around him to this new leaf have been varied. The break with Lee had come pretty fast. If her playfulness with him at work had irritated him before, it was intolerable now. Besides, it had all been too much, too soon after Barbara – and he could see the distance growing in her eyes at his new-found sense of self: too grim, too driven – not what she had been hoping for. He hadn’t been hurt when she’s ended it, still genuinely wished her well, had even pointed out a job opportunity for her in Chicago.

Bullock watches him carefully these days with his usual cynical eye, and maybe a little concern on his face. Jim still trusts him, has no doubt that he has his back, but there’s a noticeable cooling of a relationship that had become friendly. He’s regretful, but as long as they’re still professionally productive, then that’s all that really matters.

Ed, once so sad to see him go that he hugged him in the middle of the station, generally gives him a wide berth. He’s not quite sure what he’s done to deserve this. He’s not had much time to indulge his riddles and nonsense, sure – but Harvey’s as impatient and rude with him as he ever was, and Ed seems the same around him. He seems to have picked up on a change in Jim, though, shrinks away from him at times, like he expects to be snapped at. He feels almost hurt by this.

 _Cobblepot._ Well. He’s made his own changes. Falcone had talked to him about that at one of their lunches – warned him that Cobblepot would be trying to consolidate his new position, that Jim should keep a close eye on him, that he would be trying to pull Jim down – wouldn’t want a truly just man in the city to threaten his fledgling empire. 

Jim had listened carefully, nodding grimly. When he had returned home that night, he had written ‘Oswald Cobblepot’ carefully in the new journal he had bought to mark his fresh start, his new campaign in Gotham. He decided to meticulously record dates when Cobblepot attempted to contact him, the details of every conversation, likely ulterior motives.

The page stayed blank for days. And then a week, and then two and then three. Oswald Cobblepot made no attempt to contact him. Jim thought he would have been relieved, ordinarily – glad to be rid of him - but Falcone’s words make him think that he’s probably planning something, that he should be doubly suspicious. That doesn’t really explain the anger that prickles at the back of his neck at this behaviour, or the creeping sense that he is being deliberately slighted – but he puts that down to the general sense of aggravation that surrounds his dealings with the man.

It’s with an odd sense of triumph, then, that he picked up a report one morning with Cobblepot’s name on it. A break-in at his club which requires a routine visit. It could probably have been handled by uniform, but he tells himself that no-one else in that precinct is as good at reading Cobblepot than he is, and no-one more impervious to his wheedling and flattery. It’s best that he goes. Safest. Pulling on his coat, he heads briskly out the door.

**

The first thing he notices when he arrives is that the club has been redecorated. The last refurbishment had been hasty, and at Falcone’s request, and he can imagine Cobblepot ripping that out with some glee, keen to remove any sign of Falcone’s influence. It’s all black and chrome and glass now, sleek and cool. Jim grudgingly admits it looks good, although he certainly won’t tell him that. Doesn’t want him misinterpreting anything as friendship. God knows it seemed damn near impossible to shake him of that idea.

‘Detective.’

Jim turns to see the big one, Gabe – he thinks he’s called – standing by the bar. He walks over.

‘Here to ask some questions about the break-in.’

‘Ain’t this a little below your pay-grade, Detective?’

Jim juts his chin a little.

‘I don’t need to justify showing up at a crime scene. And we both know that this isn’t exactly a run of the mill establishment, don’t we?’

Gabe shrugs amiably, does not seem nettled by Jim’s tone.

‘Where is he?’

‘I’ll need to see if he’s available.’

Jim draws himself up a little taller, that prickling anger at the base of his skull again. ‘A police officer needs to question him – he’s the owner, and a crime has been committed on the premises. He doesn’t get to _choose_ whether he’s available or not.’

Gabe sighs, and walks towards the office, Jim following on his heels. When they get there, Gabe gestures to wait outside while he goes into the office. Jim grimaces in irritation but ultimately heeds his warning. He hears voices – Cobblepot’s sharp and irritable, and Gabe’s deeper tones, placating – but can’t make out the words.

The door opens and Gabe comes back out. As Jim goes to step inside, the man gives him a warning look, but Jim isn’t in the mood to tiptoe around Oswald Cobblepot, and frowns at him. 

The office has apparently been redecorated in the same style as the rest of the club. The stark, angular lines suit its inhabitant, who remains seated behind what must be an original art deco desk. Even Jim’s underdeveloped sense of aesthetics can acknowledge that it is genuinely beautiful, although he follows this up by wondering sourly where it was stolen from. He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again with a snap when Oswald raises a finger, finishing whatever he is working on before bestowing any attention on Jim. 

Cobblepot signs something with a flourish, places his fountain pen neatly in front of him, and then raises his eyes to Jim.

‘Detective. Do take a seat. How can I be of assistance?’

Jim feels a muscle twitch in his jaw at this exaggerated formality.

‘There was a break-in at this club, Cobblepot. I’m here to ask some questions’

That earns a quirked eyebrow, the silent version of Gabe’s earlier comment about this hardly being appropriate work for a detective. Jim doesn’t rise to the bait, takes a breath, continues to ask the standard questions.

‘Was anything taken?’ He grits out.

‘Nothing that I can see.’ Oswald responds coolly.

‘So someone went to the trouble of breaking into a mob-run club, took nothing, caused no damage, and then left?’

Oswald gives a slight nod in answer, his face perfectly neutral. For some reason, the more detached he is, the hotter Jim’s anger seems to burn. He stares at him.

‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, Detective.’ His voice is even, unhurried.

‘I’ll look over the statements made. Make some security recommendations.’ 

Oswald’s eyes are already straying back towards his paperwork. ‘If that’s all, Detective?’

Summarily dismissed, Jim leaves. He notes that Oswald seems to finally have been cured of his delusions of friendship. Backing Falcone at the warehouse must have been the killing blow. It’s a weight off his shoulders, he decides. The end of an extended mistake on Cobblepot’s part that had caused him nothing but aggravation.

When he leaves the club, and is back out on the street, the day is colder than he remembered. Turning his collar up against it, he walks briskly towards his car, head down.

**

Falcone lets out a small laugh. ‘How predictable.’

Jim looks up at him in surprise, lowering his cup back to the table.

Lunch with Falcone had become a semi-regular occurrence, a new feature of his routine. He had called Jim a few days after the showdown, keen to thank him in person. Now that he was retired, Jim couldn’t exactly refuse on the grounds of fraternising with the enemy. And Falcone had expressed a genuine interest in him, telling him that he believed he alone was the man who could turn Gotham around – truly his father’s son. He’s helped him find a sense of purpose he thought he’d lost sight of.

Besides, Jim’s lonely, these days, the ferocity of his attitude to his work alienating even those who didn’t hate him before, and it’s made him grateful for these lunches with Falcone. He reminisces about his father, and offers support and guidance.

‘Oswald is a very clever man, James – gifted, in his way. He knows that he will need a good relationship with GCPD in his new position. He’s testing the waters. Seeing how you respond to him, what weak spots you have, how he can exploit them.’

Jim shakes his head, his expression dubious. ‘I don’t know about that. He didn’t seem interested in talking at all. Barely looked at me.’

‘You mark my words, James. You need to keep a careful eye on him. Even if it seems innocuous, I can guarantee there’s something behind it. Trust me. You’re not a naturally devious man. I am. Or was, at least – in a professional capacity.’ He spreads his hands self-deprecatingly. Jim gives him a small smile. Falcone rises from his chair.

‘Come, please – let me show you the new garden I’ve planted. I’ve discovered so many new interests in my declining years.’


	2. Chapter 2

Oswald stares disconsolately at the ledger in front of him – despite the fact it looks reasonably healthy. Jim, no – _Detective Gordon_ – had just left. 

It was the first time Oswald had set eyes on him in over three weeks. 

Oswald has taken some beatings in these last few months, eventful as they have been. And even by his seasoned standards, some really quite spectacular beatings. Many of the finest thugs the biggest families could afford had used his rib cage like a football on more than one occasion. Fish had shattered his knee cap, wrecked his leg. Maroni had slammed his head off the table so hard he had seen stars, and feared for a moment that his skull was fractured. 

All that considered, he still ranked the moment when he realised that Jim Gordon meant to leave him to die as the most exquisitely painful experience in recent memory.

The frustration of being discovered before he could put an end to Falcone had been a burning, twisting pain in his gut. The reappearance of Fish had been like a steam train screaming through his head – a tumult so loud it had been painful. But when he had seen that Jim meant to walk away and leave him to his fate, it had felt like drowning – limbs cold and painfully numbed, air pushed from his lungs.

He had known betrayal before, of course: naïve attempts at friendship while at school which had only been pretexts for more cruelty. His father’s death he rather erroneously perceived as a betrayal – he knew it was irrational, but he still could not forgive him for leaving him and his mother behind in a city that had no time for weakness, or poverty, or outsiders. His first faltering steps on the path to the mob had shown him brutal betrayals that taught him to take care, to trust absolutely no one.

But James, _James._ He thought they were _friends._ Jim had saved his life when it would have been so _easy_ to take it, and Oswald had gladly saved his in return. Their bond was unique. He _trusted_ Jim, would never have hurt him, would have strung up anyone who had dared try. He had even forgiven his foolish decision to back Falcone: Jim, after all, was utterly politically inept – something rather endearing that had made Oswald feel protective of him. 

But leaving him there, helpless, for Maroni to cut open? The crushing weight of it would have dropped him to his knees, had he not been so busy trying to stay alive. 

There was also a truth so raw that he could hardly bear to think about it, now - kept it locked away in a safe corner of his mind where it couldn’t shame him. He had _cared_ for Jim. Had tender feelings for him. It had made him act the fool in his company, he knew - stammering and blushing and staring – but he couldn’t help it, in fact, had felt nothing but giddy happiness at this new feeling.

He wondered whether Jim had suspected at all. He wondered if it had repulsed him.

He had never seen Oswald as a friend. He had never seen him at all. Or maybe he had seen him, and despised him anyway.

After the elation of ousting Fish had worn off that night – and the soaring realisation that he was now in charge, and that _everyone_ owed him respect had ebbed away – he had lain in bed, exhausted, staring at the ceiling, and been horrified to feel tears prickle behind his eyelids. He had scoffed at this before, mocked those he saw disappointed in love and wondered how they could have been so easily fooled. He was above such entanglements. But this? This feeling was _hideous._ His chest hurt. He hadn’t realised that being broken-hearted was quite so literal. 

Biting his lip, he had decided that he would permit himself one night – only one - in which to indulge his pain, after which he would keep Jim Gordon at the distance he deserved. Turning over on his side, and curling up in a bid to comfort himself, he had let hot tears slip down his face until he fell asleep. 

When he woke the next morning he had a staggering headache, and the weals on his wrists where he had desperately worked his restraints free were hot and throbbing, threatening infection – but he had felt a renewed sense of strength, and told himself firmly that Jim Gordon had simply been a salutary lesson, which had only made him stronger. Instructive – nothing more. Their relationship was at an end, and his eyes were opened. Let him try to cope in Gotham without his help.

So he had not contacted him. He had refurbished the club, drawn up plans for expansion elsewhere, mulled how best to quell any mutinous former allies of Falcone or Maroni who might see him as a pretender to be brought low, and had three new suits made. Far too busy to even spare him even a moment’s thought. 

He hadn’t even intended to talk to him about the break-in, wanted to remain sequestered and aloof in his office, but Gabe had told him that Jim was insisting he speak to him personally, and would not take no for an answer, and Oswald had reluctantly acquiesced to see him. Besides, it was the ideal opportunity to test his newfound sense of control where Jim was concerned. Just another tedious representative of GCPD – unworthy of his time.

Oswald had made a show of making him wait. It put Jim in his deserved place, and also let him gather his defences before this test of his mettle. When he had finally deigned to look up from his ledger, Jim was visibly frustrated at being made to wait. Good. Very good. 

He asked his questions, and Oswald had responded crisply. He’s unsettled by this break-in, actually, but Jim has lost his right to be the recipient of his confidences, and so he had held his tongue. Jim had stared at him, clearly finding this break-in as confusing as he did, and irritated by Oswald’s seeming indifference. 

Habit, of parsing everyone’s face for weakness, and staring far too long at Jim’s face, in particular, had made Oswald regard him carefully - his eyes deceptively sharp behind the neutral mask he had perfected. He's paler and thinner than he was before. Drawn looking. He feels a traitorous little spark of concern in his chest and pushes the heel of his hand hard against the sharp edge of his desk to drive it away with pain. _He would have left you there for Maroni,_ he reminds himself. The sting that recollection produces inspires Oswald to dismiss him, his coup de grace, he feels.

Reflecting on it later, Oswald congratulates himself on his self-control, for his mastery of the situation. He’s not so sure he feels happy, per se, but he expects that will come later.


	3. Chapter 3

Harvey winces as Jim slams his files onto his desk and sits down heavily in his chair.

‘Well? Was it worth the trip – or has Cobblepot only earned himself yet another well-deserved enemy? I swear, that guy has a permanent black eye.’

Jim shakes his head. ‘A break-in. Nothing taken, nothing damaged.’

Harvey leans back in his seat, takes his glasses off, and looks at him disbelievingly. Jim nods.

‘ _Exactly._ I know. Makes no sense.’

Harvey chews the leg of his glasses contemplatively. 

‘What did Penguin say?’

Jim purses his mouth as he recollects that interview. ‘Not much’ 

Harvey is watching him, head tilted. 

‘Well, not like we haven’t got enough to do around here, anyway.’

Jim offers a tight smile that’s more of a grimace, and opens the files in front of him. He buries himself gladly in work.

**

‘You listening, Jim?’

He drags his attention from the file in front of him and looks up to see Harvey standing, hat and coat on, ready to leave. It’s gotten dark outside. He glances at his watch. 8.00pm. He rubs at the bridge of his nose. He got up at 6 this morning to hit the gym and then run here for 7.

‘Jim - You’re still not listening. I said: _go home.’_

Jim rubs at the back of his neck. ‘I’ll just finish these last two before I go’

Harvey sighs exasperatedly. ‘When was the last time you did anything that wasn’t work, Jim?’

‘Someone’s got to do it’. Tiredness has made his tone more snide than he intended, and Harvey raises his eyebrows.

‘And don’t you just _love_ being that someone.’

It smarts, but Jim does not have the energy or inclination to argue. He just takes it and hopes they’re smoothed out enough by tomorrow that they can at least work together like professionals. His eye is caught by someone behind Harvey, hovering at the top of the stairs. Ed. Looking uncertain. He beckons him over.

‘Those for me?’

Ed nods and reaches forward to drop a stack of lab files on his desk.

‘Just a couple more, eh?’ Harvey shakes his head and turns to Ed. ‘Hey Nygma – you done?’

‘I finished at five’ said Ed. ‘But Detective Gordon said these were urgent’

‘Jim here thinks everything’s urgent. It comes from being an uptight, unlaid pain in the ass. C’mon – I’ll buy you a beer, make up for my partner being a jerk. No riddles, though – you hear? Not one, or I’ll arrest you for being drunk and disorderly and you can spend a night in the drunk tank. Tell me about your love life. Let me share my wisdom.’

Jim wonders exactly how unpleasant his company must be nowadays if Harvey is willing to take Nygma for a beer, given that Harvey devotes an unreasonable portion of every working day to griping about him. He watches them as they walk down the stairs and wind their way to the main door before turning his gritty eyes to the lab reports Ed brought him. They’re not exactly high-profile, maybe even trivial, but like he told Falcone – who had nodded approvingly – _every_ case, no matter how small, needs to be worked thoroughly.

**

Oswald winds his way through the packed club, nodding and smiling jovially at the revellers as he goes. Business is good. Business is _very_ good. If only everything were running so smoothly. He leans heavily on the bar when he arrives, glancing over to catch Butch’s eye. He pats the arm of the pretty blonde he had been charming, and makes his way over to Oswald.

‘Boss. Business is looking good’

Oswald nods. ‘Indeed it is, Butch, indeed it is. But I must put my mind to broader concerns’

‘Tough being the guy at the top, huh?’

Tough is an understatement. Oswald feels as though he must have a target painted on him. There’s been nothing yet, nothing overt – anyway – just some grumbling, some pointed glances. He knows he’s seen as an upstart, a nobody – but getting rid of Falcone, Fish and Maroni has lent him some not inconsiderable status, and bought him a little time. If he can _just_ get past this awkward beginning and settle everyone’s nerves, then the whole scene should calm down, return to something resembling normality. 

Until it does, though, he’s hyper-vigilant. Sleep is rare, and easily disrupted when it does arrive, and he’s been drinking so much black coffee that Gabe has removed the coffee pot from his office. He can deny it all he wants, but Oswald _knows_ it was him. And he _still_ can’t find it. It’s perhaps not the worst idea, though, he’s jittery at the best of times – and he knows he’s positively manic on too much caffeine.

Maybe his current nerviness is why that break in bothered him like it did. Nothing taken, nothing wrecked. Just an open door – like someone had just left moments before. It _itches_ at him. Why? No-one would be foolish enough to try a smash and grab on a place like this. And nothing was destroyed, so not spite. So what, _what?_ Oswald can’t abide puzzles and riddles, can’t stand the feeling of someone knowing more than him - even for just one second. Something about this feels sly, deliberate - like someone is laughing at him. 

Oswald stamps hard on the unsettled feeling, and smiles broadly at Butch.

‘Heavy lies the head that wears the crown.’

Butch looks a little confused. Oswald wonders why he even tries, sometimes, and fights the urge to roll his eyes at one of his own top lieutenants, instead nodding his head towards his office. Time to talk business that he does not want to discuss out here, where who knows how many spies might be eavesdropping. He would have been, he knew – back when he was a humble umbrella boy.

Closing the door behind them, grateful for the relative quiet of the office, Oswald makes his way slowly to his chair as Butch takes a seat. His leg is always tired by this time of day, and he rubs absently at the dull ache in his hip as he sits down.

‘I would like to ensure that I control the flow of alcohol in this town. All of it’

Butch raises his eyebrows.

‘That’s a pretty tall order, boss. Even Falcone didn’t run everything. Maroni took care of the liquor. You know that, remember how he screwed us over?’

Oswald grimaces at the recollection. ‘ _Vividly._ Hence my desire to ensure that I am not again ever at risk of being in the humiliating position of trying to run a nightclub with no liquor’

‘Yeah – but no-one’s going to try that trick now – are they? Maroni did it because he know he could get away with it, you were on shaky ground back then. And because he was a jerk.’

Oswald agrees heartily with this summation of Maroni’s character, succinct though it is. Watching Fish shoot him in the head had been _magnificently_ satisfying. He was only sorry he could not have had a glass of champagne in his hand at the time.

‘You try to take control of everything – you’ll only cause trouble for yourself. They’ll think: first he takes over, now he’s running the booze – what’s next on his list - who does this kid think he is?’

Oswald’s chin jerks up at that, but Butch is holding his hands up, placating him.

‘Whoa – not my words, boss – but it’s what they’ll be thinking. Let them get used to the idea of you in charge, first, before you start making big plans.’

Oswald sighs. ‘I suppose you’re right. I do appreciate your candour, Butch.’

‘No problem. Now, if you don’t need anything else – I’d like to get back to appreciating that blonde’

Oswald smiles tiredly, ‘Yes, yes of course’.

He waits until he hears the door click before leaning his head in his hands and massaging his temples. Butch is right, hubris _is_ a fault of his. Even Maroni had pointed that out. Too much, too soon. Better to consolidate right now. He can’t even begin to contemplate higher–level politics until he settles the families and lessens the risk of a knife in his back.

Oswald sighs heavily. The thought of heading back out to the bar right now is not appealing: the noise and the push and flow of the crowd. He is so _tired_ and his nerves are jangled, and knifing a customer for stepping on his foot or brushing too close would be… unhelpful… in his bid to create an image of a settled and established leader.

The faint sound of laughter through the door makes him frown sullenly. The King of Gotham, and yet he still somehow ends up outside the party – listening to everyone else celebrate. Tough at the top, indeed. No-one to confide in without betraying a weakness. Then again, that’s not exactly new – but for a little while there it had been so _nice_ to have someone he felt he could trust, who he could talk…

He scowls viciously at where that thought had been going, and pulls some paperwork out of his desk drawer, slamming it shut again. He internally starts to recite his litany to chase the moment of weakness away: _He would have left you there for Maroni_ \- and focuses on the work before him.


	4. Chapter 4

Jim is very, very grateful to be back at the station. He’s spent two fruitless hours walking the streets trying to identify potential witnesses for a recent robbery. The passers-by were… hostile, the night is frigidly cold, his hands and feet are numb, and he’s never wanted a hot drink so badly in his whole life. Harvey seemed to think that army training somehow makes you invulnerable to these things – but it doesn’t, not really, just teaches you to endure it without complaining. 

He sinks into his chair with some relief, shutting his eyes, and leaning his head back. Harvey clears his throat. Opening his eyes, Jim’s attention is caught by a report on his desk. He looks disbelievingly at it, and then up at Harvey. 

‘Again? Seriously? What’s it been since the last one? A week?’

Harvey nods. ‘Again’

‘How’d it wind up on my desk first?’

‘’Cause _I_ put it there, in the hope you’d stop trying to solve every case that comes in here like some kind of demented machine and maybe focus on one for a while.’

‘Every case… ’ begins Jim, starting to recite the mantra he’s been living his life by since the warehouse.

Harvey rolls his eyes. ‘Please, spare me your weird boy-scout detective code of honour that you made up. I’m your partner, and not only am I very, _very_ bored of investigating every two-bit robbery or mugging that comes in here, I’m sick of watching you burn yourself out on them.’

He doesn’t give Jim time to come up with a retort to that. 

‘I am officially off-duty. You do whatever the hell you like.’ He heads downstairs. Jim watches him crook a finger at Ed, who obediently lopes along by his side. Jim wonders briefly what the hell they talk about when they’re out. Knowing Harvey – women. That doesn’t strike him as Ed’s strong suit.

Shaking his head as if to empty it of this irrelevance, he turns his attention to the report in front on him. Scanning down the page, it looks like more of the same. Another break-in: nothing taken, nothing wrecked. He runs his tongue over his teeth, thinking of what Falcone had said: _he’s testing the waters….even if it seems innocuous, there’s something behind it._

Could Cobblepot be staging these himself? Some kind of elaborate ruse? Jim frowns. But what would he gain? Is he trying to open lines of communication again? Looking for sympathy? It seems doubtful. He had barely exchanged two words with Jim at their last meeting. Treated him like a damn door-to-door salesman.

So what then? Misdirection? Trying to distract them from God knows what else he might be up to? Seems more likely. He decides to go over there and see if he can get more out of Cobblepot this time. He’s officially off-duty, but all that means these days is his still apartment, and that’s getting harder and harder to go home to at night.

**

When he gets there, Butch and Gabe are chatting at the bar. The club is still fairly quiet, but a few customers have started to arrive early.

‘Detective Gordon!’ Butch greets him with a smile. ‘Drink? You look like you could use one.  
’  
‘I’m on… ’ begins Jim automatically, before remembering that he is not on duty. Maybe it’ll put Cobblepot more at ease if he sees him take a drink, make him slip up. Maybe it might actually manage to put some heat into him. He knows it’s winter, but Jesus – Jim feels like it’s been weeks since he’s felt warm. He manages a tight smile.

‘I’m not on duty, as a matter of fact. So, OK. Scotch.’

‘Joining us in the land of the living! Nice to see it!’ Butch seems pleased at coaxing him into a drink.

Gabe smiles widely and gives him an approving pat on the back that just about winds him. Does he do that with Oswald, Jim wonders. He must nearly floor him.

He sips at the drink when it’s placed in front of him, the burn in his throat and chest welcome – although still not chasing that deep cold completely away.

‘So’ he says, conversationally. ‘Another break-in.’

‘Nothing taken. And no damage’ says Gabe. ‘The boss still don’t like it, though.’

Jim hears the office door slam loudly shut. No, the boss apparently doesn’t like it, at all. The man himself rounds the corner, too angry to bother hiding the worst of his lurching limp. He stops short when he sees Jim at the bar, a flash of surprise on his face. Jim feels vaguely triumphant at breaking that damn mask he was treated to last time – although the triumph is short-lived.

‘Detective, good evening’ says Cobblepot, his tone meticulously polite. 

‘Detective Gordon came all the way down here off-duty about that break-in, boss’ Gabe adds, helpfully.

Jim watches his face keenly to see what he thinks of that, if it will give him some clue to what the hell is going on here. There’s a momentary, minute flicker of lashes as Cobblepot decides how to respond.

‘Above and beyond the call of duty. How diligent of you, Detective.’

Jim thinks how lucky Cobblepot is that Jim has only had one drink, and is now determined to keep to the highest standard of professionalism – because his fingers are damn near itching to grab him by the collar and demand an end to this bullshit act he’s pulling. Well, he can do by the book and officious, too. No-one can do that better than him. 

He smiles thinly, and adopts a neutral tone. ‘I’d like to go to your office, if you don’t mind, and run through the particulars again. Perhaps there’s some detail you’ve missed.’

Trapped by his own new rules of conduct – meticulous, icy politeness, Cobblepot has no choice but to nod graciously and lead the way to his office. Jim follows, his pace deliberately slow, since that limp really is looking worse.

**

When they get to his office, Cobblepot hastens to his chair, closing his eyes briefly and suppressing what looked a lot like a sigh of relief to be off his leg. Jim sits opposite him, taking this opportunity to give him a proper look-over – working for the moment on Falcone’s suggestion of some plot or misdirection.

He looks pale. Paler than usual, or it might just be the dark circles under his pale eyes drawing a sickly contrast. Thinner, too – though God knows he didn’t exactly have any to spare before. He’s more jittery than usual, too – occasional twitches betraying him in his fingers, or at the muscles in his jaw. Jim mulls what all this might mean. He’s obviously running himself ragged trying to run things. Probably skipping meals and sleep and running on caffeine. Jim can’t exactly sit on his high horse about that. There’s something else, though – something he can’t quite put his finger on.

His musings are interrupted when he suddenly notices that the pale eyes in the face he is analysing are now fixed on him, and he snaps back to attention. 

‘So. Everything was locked up and secure? All windows, all doors?’

Oswald nods once.

‘Who noticed the door was open?’

‘It was the cleaner the first time. Me this time.’

Jim frowns. ‘You were up before the cleaner?’ 

‘Running a club is a _great_ deal of work, Detective.’ Cobblepot’s tone is haughty, but Jim is not convinced. This explains the dark circles, though. Is he working on some other scheme round the clock?

‘And _nothing_ was taken? Not even disturbed?’

Oswald shakes his head, and Jim almost, _almost_ misses it, but notices that he’s biting the inside of his lip a little. His gut instinct is that this is actually _bothering_ Cobblepot, unsettling him somehow - but then he remembers what Falcone said, and wonders whether he’s maybe just anxious that Jim won’t be convinced by whatever the hell he’s trying to pull here. He narrows his eyes.

‘I’d like to have a thorough look round the place tomorrow’ he raises his hand as Cobblepot opens his mouth to protest. ‘ _Not_ a search. Just means of ingress and egress’

‘ _Ingress and egress._ Very military.’

It’s a nod to his knowledge of Jim’s past, and something that could almost be construed as amiable, and Jim’s eyes snap to his quickly – but the shutters are back up again quickly and the blank mask is back.

‘That would be acceptable, Detective.’

Jim suddenly feels too tired to do much more of this, and stands abruptly. When he speaks, he sounds a little more irritated than he would have liked.

‘Fine. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Early.’ _And I’m going to start parking down the street and staking this place out until I find out exactly what you’re up to,_ he adds, silently.

**

He dreams that night of sitting in that office again, except this time Oswald is talking animatedly – but Jim can’t hear a sound coming out of his mouth. It disturbs him badly, for some reason, and preys on his mind at odd moments throughout the day, making him even more terse than usual.


	5. Chapter 5

Oswald suppresses a sigh. His mother is hard work even when he is feeling on top of his game. At the moment, tired and worried and on-edge as he is, her melodramatics are pulling his fraying nerves tauter than is tolerable. She is pacing the floor, pressing her hand dramatically to her forehead.

‘Always gone, always busy, never here’

He rolls his eyes and counts to ten. He loves her – he _does,_ she’s the only person he can trust, now – but at the same time part of him can’t wait to be out of that dusty, suffocating apartment and back out on the city streets. It makes him feel guilty, sometimes. 

She is standing in front of him, now, her hands outstretched, gesturing beseechingly.

‘Why can I not come visit your club again? Your beautiful club.’ 

Oswald banks down a rush of frustration. Can’t she remember what happened last time? Maroni hissing poison in her ear? _No._ That was sentimentality that he could not afford then, and certainly cannot afford now. And especially not with these break-ins, these infernal break-ins. He feels watched, observed – someone coming and going in his club as they please, without his permission. He presses his fingers to his temples.

‘You are ill, my boy?’

She sits down beside him on the couch, her maternal instinct temporarily overtaking her tendency for melodramatics. She takes his chin in her hands, tilting his head this way and that, peering into his face. He smiles weakly.

‘I’m fine, mom, fine. Just busy. Working hard’

She looks closely at him, her eyes sharp and searching. ‘You are very pale. And your eyes… You are eating? Sleeping?

No and no.

‘Yes, yes of _course.’_ He smiles sweetly, knows exactly how to distract her. ‘No food is nearly as good as yours, though…’

She beams at him, and pats his hand, pleased. 

‘I will make you up a parcel to tempt your appetite, keep you strong. All your favourites.’ 

Oswald leans his head back against the soft sofa cushions as she busies herself in the kitchen, and closes his eyes… but no, apparently he can’t even nap here. His childhood home. No respite anywhere, no sanctuary anywhere… As he rubs tiredly at his eyes, an uneasy feeling uncurls slowly in his chest, and he straightens up.

‘Mom?’

‘Yes, mein spätzchen?’

‘Have you… nothing unusual has happened here recently, has it?’

‘Unusual?’ Her tone is distracted, focusing on her cooking.

‘No… disturbances? Burglaries in the building? Strangers?’

‘Oh no. Nothing at all. Mrs Lowenstein bought a new cat, such a pretty creature, and when I went to tea with her I took some of those little cakes I made… ’

Oswald exhales while she chatters, but it’s too late - the feeling has taken root now. Fear, sitting cold and heavy in his chest. 

It’s still there when he leaves, laden down with parcels of food, pink lipstick clinging to his cheek. Gabe walks forward to take the parcels from him as he steps towards the car, a glint in his eye at the prospect of more of his mother’s cooking.

‘Strudel, and semmelknödel, and all the usuals, Gabriel, you’ll be pleased to hear.’

The big man grins at him, anticipating a few days of good meals ahead. Oswald smiles faintly back. His own appetite is erratic at the best of times, but it seems to have completely departed recently.

On the way back to the club, Oswald turns his head to stare out of the car window and watch the grey day slip past. He enjoys the rain, usually – finds it soothing - but he can’t settle himself to enjoy it today. There’s a million things to think about, and now worry about mother is on that list too and…

Gabe’s voice disrupts his train of thought.

‘Detective Gordon dropped by earlier this morning, boss. I think he was a little sore that you weren’t there – seeing as he made the effort to come down special’  
Oswald smiles unpleasantly. That was _exactly_ why he had chosen to be out at that time. Jim’s eyes had been much, much too alert last night, scanning his face like he was looking for clues, and Oswald knew his tiredness was showing badly. Jim probably thinks he isn’t up to the job, if he is looking exhausted so early in his reign. That he was right to have backed Falcone. Oswald had felt stung by this implied judgment, and decided to punish him for it this morning.

‘Did he had _anything_ useful to say?’ he asks airily.

Gabe shakes his head. ‘Nah - nothing we didn’t think of already – doors, windows, security lights. He seemed interested, though – real interested. Said he’ll be monitoring it closely.’

Oswald rolls his eyes at that, unimpressed. It’s not like Jim Gordon’s help is worth anything. He’s not be trusted, after all. Not anymore.

**

Jim stands up and walks to the window, rolling his stiff shoulders. He’s spent the last two hours poring over case files. It’s a bad habit bringing them home, he knows, one Barbara had forbidden back when they were together. But work is what’s important, what’s fuelling him right now, and when he’s back in the apartment without it he feels oddly disconnected from the world outside. Unreal. The files on the table are anchoring him to normality like nothing else seems to be right now. He watches the rain beat against the window for a moment, and slowly reaches out to touch his fingertips to the glass, before letting his arm fall back to his side.

He wanders back over and drops heavily back down on to the couch, leaning against the cushions and regarding the papers scattered over his coffee table. The files he brought home are largely routine – cases that could have been cleared easily if the officers investigating at the time could have been bothered to do their job properly. Or honestly. Jim is blazing through them, earning glares from the colleagues he’s embarrassing in the process. He is irrevocably unpopular now, even with those he had started to win over. Falcone tells him his father faced similar problems in his career. It gives Jim a little comfort to think that they walked this same lonesome path.

Leaning over and sifting through them, he lifts the report that’s of real interest to him. Cobblepot and his break-ins. 

He overplayed his hand this morning, when he decided not to be there for Jim’s visit. Whatever the hell’s going on, whether he’s genuinely being targeted or the whole thing is some elaborate ruse – it’s important to him. he could tell that last night, when Oswald had seemed too tired to even maintain his mask for their whole interview. More than tired, actually, almost ill with exhaustion.

So when he had arrived that morning and found no Cobblepot, but an apologetic Gabe, who had explained sheepishly that 'the boss had an engagement’, Jim had felt an initial smart of annoyance at the obvious, too obvious, insult, but mainly noted an attempt to throw him off the scent. He shrugged it off to focus on the task at hand, and had gone painstakingly round the exterior of the club, checked the doors and windows – even up onto the roof. Nothing. Not a damn thing out of place. 

He had left the usual security recommendations with Gabe, getting the impression that he was saying nothing the big man hadn’t already considered, despite the fact that he nodded politely at Jim throughout, saying that he would pass it on to the boss.

Arriving back at the station at midday, Jim had stoically walked past the usual array of unfriendly faces to get back to his desk. 

When he got there, he had steepled his fingers, and stared grimly at the file in front of him like it might deliver up something new. There must be something he’s missing. What is Cobblepot up to?

He had scowled stubbornly at it for most of the afternoon, like he was in a staring match with Cobblepot's new blank expression. Refusing to admit defeat, and now in a foul mood, Jim had stuffed the file into his bag, and it had come home with him at the end of his shift.

Not that Jim had got much further with it here, other than giving himself a dull headache, and an occasional bright flash of anger when he recalled his recent encounters with Cobblepot. 

A heavy sigh turns into a yawn, and Jim decides to call it a night. Piling the files up neatly on the coffee table, he heads for bed. Maybe he’d talk to Falcone again when he went for lunch this week. See what insights he could offer.


	6. Chapter 6

Oswald carefully watches the faces around the table. They all wear the same controlled expressions, eyes flicking back and forth. Collectively, these are probably the most dangerous men in the city – although in Gotham you can always be sure that there are others, lurking in alleys and corners. These are the immediate threats though: every one of them, Oswald knows, would not hesitate to slide a knife between his shoulder blades – take everything in a moment that he’s worked so hard for, even though they didn’t have the wit or nerve to win it like he did. All that’s staying their hand at the moment is the prestige he gained for felling the three biggest players, and that won’t last long – not at all. 

What he has to do now requires delicate handling, very delicate. He has to be seen to be a pillar of strength, imperturbable – promising stability and shared prosperity. This is difficult, given that his success was built on a talent for upsetting the established order of things, for creating mayhem and then capitalising on it. 

He would also like to commence breeding _just_ enough distrust amongst these men to keep them at each other’s throats and away from his – but this is much too risky a venture just now. Violence and mistrust would be all too likely to spill over into bloodshed – pulling them all back into open warfare. It’s easier to fight that kind of battle when you’re not on the defensive, easier when you’re a lone agent – too small and unimportant to attract suspicion. As Maroni and Falcone both learned, to their cost.

‘What about booze?’ asks Collina, an affable looking man with a penchant for breaking fingers. He had been envious of Maroni’s hold on liquor for a long time, and made no secret about it. Letting him take care of it – _for now_ – would keep him satisfied, buy his allegiance.

‘Well, of course you should handle that’ says Oswald smoothly. ‘No-one here would ever question your knowledge and expertise in this area, I don’t think’. He glances round the table, seeing cautious approval on most of the faces, and envy on the others. He chooses the most envious looking one – Vasylenko.

‘I’m sure Mr Vasylenko would be more than willing to assist you when it came to dealing with matters surrounding storage at the docks.’

Vasylenko’s greedy face lights up. Running the warehouses is all he has – and while he has an appetite, he does not possess the nous to expand. He’ll bend over backwards to help Collina, to be seen as more important by association. Collina knows this, and looks suitably smug. Oswald pats himself on the back for neutralising two potential threats.

The rest of the meeting proceeds in much the same painstaking way. No bold moves, _not yet,_ just reassuring the established faces that their positions are secure, while giving the lowlier men just enough to sweeten their disposition without making them ambitious. Constantly balancing the scales, and taking careful note of who looks dissatisfied, and who looks amenable.

By the time the meeting is over, Oswald is drained. He’s used to being on edge all day, to an extent, but coupled with the lack of sleep at night, and the feeling that nowhere is entirely safe – he can’t rest, definitely can’t sleep. Managing the meeting without a slip-up had been a Herculean effort.

As it breaks up, and smaller groups form before leaving, reviewing the winners and losers of today’s business, Oswald listens to Butch’s observations, muttered discreetly in his ear.

‘You did well, boss. Real well. Just enough to keep them happy and busy – for now.’

Oswald opens his mouth to reply when he sees Vaccaro advancing. Vaccaro is most definitely a threat. Sicilian, and a former close confidante of Falcone’s, he regards Oswald with an exaggeratedly benevolent, fatherly eye that makes Oswald squirm with annoyance – mostly because it’s utterly insincere – simply done to remind Oswald of his youth and inexperience.

He smiles respectfully.

‘Don Vaccaro. A pleasure, as always. How well you look’

Vaccaro touches his hand to his chest in a self-deprecating gesture. _Hypocrite,_ thinks Oswald.

‘I will pass your compliments to the talented man who is overseeing my vineyard in the old country – in Buonivini: have you ever been, my boy?

_Oh yes, on one of the frequent European vacations I took when I was working as an umbrella boy,_ thinks Oswald. He shakes his head politely, and imagines how much he will enjoy attending Vaccaro’s eventual funeral, when that happy day arrives.

‘A beautiful country. You must visit.’

_And have my throat conveniently cut by one of your local thugs? Not likely._ Oswald smiles and nods assent.

Vaccaro smiles. ‘I know, though – this is unlikely, you will have so much business to deal with. Still, I will send you a few bottles. You look a little pale, my friend, a little tired. Some good wine, good food – mens sana in corpore sano, yes?

Oswald manages a tight smile and a deferential tilt of his head, as if he’s admiring the man’s wisdom.

‘As ever, Don Vaccaro, I am grateful for the benefit of your experience’

Vaccaro rests a fatherly hand on Oswald’s shoulder before finally nodding benignly and walking away. Oswald can still feel the weight of it there, making him feel twitchy with annoyance. It reminds him of Falcone’s paternal affectations, which might have worked on others – but didn’t fool Oswald. Not one bit.

**

They’re driving back to the club, the car relatively quiet after the post-meeting analysis has concluded, when Butch comments,

‘He’s not wrong, though’

Oswald frowns. ‘Who?’

‘Vaccaro. You don’t look well, boss – and you don’t want to look weak in front of these guys. You getting any sleep?’

Oswald folds his arms defensively. ‘There’s a lot to think about’

Butch’s tone is tentative. 

‘I know you didn’t like the break-ins.’ 

Oswald opens his mouth to protest and Butch hurries to finish his sentence. 

‘No-one would – it’s disrespectful, the idea of someone just coming in and out like that. Little creepy, too. But… it could just be some random weirdo. City’s full of ‘em. Just put it out of your head’

Oswald smiles in what he hopes is a convincingly relaxed manner.

‘You’re right, of course. But I assure you, Butch – it’s already gone from my mind. A minor irritation now banished. Perhaps I’ve been burning the midnight oil a little too often, planning ahead. I’ll try to get some proper rest. Easily done’

Butch looks unconvinced. Even Oswald isn’t convinced.

**

Jim refuses politely when Falcone offers him a brandy. 

‘A whiskey man, then, like your father?’ 

Jim gives a half-smile and nods. ‘I’m on duty, anyway – I’ll stick to coffee, thanks.’

Falcone smiles and raises his own glass to him. ‘Ever the professional. And speaking of business, I think your plan seems prudent, James. Watching the club at nights will give you a better idea of what’s going on.’ He settles comfortably in the armchair opposite him. ‘And you do think that Oswald is actually up to something? Not just attempting to resume your association?’

Jim frowns. ‘If it _is_ staged and then reported the next day, then it’s done to distract me from something else that’s going on.’ Jim thinks of Cobblepot’s pale tired face in his dark office. ‘He looks ill. Exhausted. Something big enough that he’s missing sleep to plan it? Or oversee it? Or maybe it is some kind of indirect threat from someone, a message. I’m not sure which – but he’s definitely not faking it.’

Falcone slowly swirls the brandy in his glass. ‘Our friend Oswald is an accomplished liar. You know him well enough that you feel you can trust your judgment?’

Jim nods decidedly. ‘I do.’

Falcone smiles. ‘It’s a rare thing in this world, James, to find someone who can truly see us. Know us.’ He takes a sip of his brandy, and nods jovially to Jim over the rim of his glass.

‘How unfortunate for Oswald that it should be an enemy’

Jim automatically opens his mouth to disagree with that description of himself, but he supposes it’s true, and closes it again.


	7. Chapter 7

Oswald watches his mother’s reaction carefully as Gabriel introduces his brothers, both as hulking as Gabriel himself. She can be unpredictable at times, take a shine to the oddest people. It’s not her judgment that matters here – she liked Maroni, after all, judgment is not her strong suit – but if she decides she likes these men, it’ll make this whole process markedly easier, and help take a weight off his mind.

Butch shifts uneasily beside him. 

‘You sure about this?’

Oswald keeps his eyes on his mother, watching keenly for the tell-tale signs of her mood changing - an expert in this since he was a little boy. He answers without turning to Butch.

‘I fail to see the problem with my plan’

‘Any kind of change is going to make them all sit up and take notice. Start thinking. They might think you’re worried. Think that there’s blood in the water.’

She’s smiling, nodding now – looking very pleased with herself. She’s been complimented. Gabriel is talking enthusiastically, and pats his stomach once. Ah. Her cooking. _Excellent,_ Gabriel. Oswald makes a mental note to increase his wages, lets out a breath and turns to face Butch, his voice low.

‘I am not willing to gamble with my mother’s safety. They all think there’s blood in the water anyway – I’m still new, a pretender.’ He rubs irritably at his stiff neck. ‘If I know she’s safe, it will lift some worry from my shoulders and help me focus.’

‘Nothing’s happened here, though. Not a thing.’

Oswald frowns. He knows this, himself – but still. The break-ins feel targeted, _personal,_ and his most obvious personal weakness is his mother. Butch is right, nothing has happened, not yet, anyway - but he still feels the threat hanging heavy in the air.

His mother walks towards him, arms outstretched, smiling brightly.

‘Mein spätzchen – you are sure you will manage without me?’ She fusses with his hair, and his bow-tie.

He pats her arm placatingly.

‘Of _course._ You need a restorative trip now and then, deserve one, with your nerves… ’

She presses her hand to her forehead and sighs heavily.

‘It is true. I am cursed with a delicate constitution.’ She flutters her lashes. ‘But some time with my dear friend Abigail by the seaside, and I will cook some wonderful dishes for these fine men…’

Oswald nods. ‘Of course. The sea air will do you a world of good. Now, Raphael will see you down to the car. I’d like to have a word with Michael here before you go. Business matters. You understand, of course.’

Once she has safely left the room, trailing the scent of rosewater behind her, Oswald turns to Michael – Gabriel’s older brother, he thinks.

‘I an placing a _great_ deal of trust in you, as well as a generous financial reward. The fact that I am willing to do this is testament to how much faith I have in your brother.'

The large man smiles. ‘No worries, boss. She’ll be watched. Anyone even comes close, so much as looks at her funny - we’ll put an end to them.’

Oswald steps closer, his voice quiet and deadly.

‘If anyone comes close, I would like them to be kept alive. When I get there, I will gut them with my own hand.’

Michael smiles at him and nods approvingly.

Oswald smiles amiably back at him. ‘But I hope this will not be the case, my friend, and you can enjoy a pleasant trip, instead.’

He ushers them all downstairs ahead of him so he can lock up, the task safely accomplished. Before he closes the door, he takes a look round the empty apartment, unnaturally quiet and still without the noise and bustle of his mother. The familiar room is suddenly terribly disquieting. There's a kernel of dread deep in his chest, as though something in the room is watching, waiting to reach out and drag him in. He exhales when he locks the door, feeling the prickle of sweat between his shoulderblades

Stepping out into the street he knows that he _should_ feel more settled but, somehow, he just feels cornered.

**

Jim shifts in the front seat of the car in a futile bid to get more comfortable. Stake-outs are a test of endurance at the best of times – but at least with a partner there’s a distraction from the fact that you’re usually cold, and tired, and bored, and have an uncomfortably full bladder. At this point, Jim thinks that he’d happily even endure one of Harvey’s detailed lectures on why his love-life is such a failure, just for a little company. 

Not that he’d have come along on this one – Jim suspects he’s maybe managed to finally exhaust his partner’s supply of good will. He sighs.

This is the second time he’s done this now, and there’s not a damn thing happening outside. The club closed hours ago, and there has been no activity since, the street totally deserted. Not even a drunken brawl when the doors closed. He hasn’t seen Cobblepot, or Gilzean, or even Gabe leave – and he’s doubtful that Cobblepot would entrust an important new venture to anyone else. He’s too distrustful, too assured of his own cleverness and everyone else’s stupidity.

So maybe whatever he’s up to _is_ centred here, then, like Falcone suggested? Or maybe he is genuinely being threatened by someone else – someone he’s double-crossed, outwitted? 

Time was when he’d have simply told Jim about whatever scheme he was planning, or who was threatening him - showed up at his apartment, or work, or any one of a million places he shouldn’t be - tugging at his sleeve, dragging him in with wide pale eyes and whispers and making him the unwilling confidante of his secrets. 

Jim isn’t anyone’s confidante, these days, though. Nobody’s friend. He shivers, and turns the heat up a little. Another hour, just to be sure, and then he’ll go home and catch a couple of hours sleep before heading to work. It’s still more sleep than Cobblepot is getting, he’s sure of that. 

**

Oswald closes the door to his rooms and, turning, leans back against it tiredly. He’s taken to randomly going downstairs to the club in the middle of the night, just in case he manages to catch whoever is foolish enough to be deliberately taunting him. It’s not like he’s sleeping anyway. 

He’s not easily scared, not at all, but he finds that when he walks through the club, empty and silent, he can’t shake the creeping feeling that there are eyes on him, that someone slides out from behind a shadow as soon he’s gone, grinning at his discomfort. 

Passing his hand over his eyes, he wanders slowly towards his bedroom.

Once he’s back into bed, though, he’s instantly wakeful again. Clasping his hands behind his head, he stares up at the ceiling, unblinking. The notion that he should have climbed so high and yet still feel preyed upon is intolerable. 

He’d spent his childhood afraid, figuring out which route to school avoided most of the other students, which corner of the playground was safest, which meant the loneliest. He’d learnt to wince and cringe at the sound of his own name, his _own name,_ called mockingly when he least expected it – always a prelude to some form of humiliation.

Even at home, a sanctuary, he could not be _entirely_ at rest. His mother’s temperament was changeable, demanding. She loved him, without doubt, loved him fiercely, but he still had to learn to become adept in warding off fits of irrational temper – making sure he told her what she wanted to hear, ensuring that her delusions were never shaken. 

Spending so long, then, grasping after control, after power that meant he would never be a victim again – to then have his very home invaded, some interloper brazenly strolling in and out whenever they felt like it… it made his chest tight with anger. He expected other colleagues to envy his position, to plot against him, have their small schemes – that was all to be expected. But there were _rules,_ and such flagrant disrespect to a man of his status was breaking them, implying that he did not deserve his position – and after he had risked so much to win it.

He breathes slow and deep to try and dispel the anger and lull himself to sleep. It doesn’t work.


	8. Chapter 8

Jim sits huddled in the front seat of his car, his eyes trained on the exterior wall of the club. This is the fourth night he has done this now, and sleep deprivation is starting to tell. He yawns widely, cracking his jaw. The club has been closed up for a couple of hours now. The whole place is in darkness, except for one solitary window in the upper floor, which is dimly lit – like it has been every night. Cobblepot’s private rooms, Jim guesses. Probably his bedroom. He glances at his watch and then back up at the window. It’s 3.30am, which would explain Cobblepot’s fragile appearance these days. 

His eye is suddenly pulled from the window by movement. The exterior door, swinging open. Jim curses and quickly switches the headlights on to illuminate the street – throw light into dark corners to see what’s going on. Nothing. He flicks them off again quickly. He glances quickly up at the window to see if there’s any reaction – he thinks there’s a twitch of blinds – but he can’t be sure. 

He is sure, though, when an unmistakeable figure comes tearing out of the side door and goes lurching fast down the street, turning this way and that – clearly searching for someone. Quickly realising the street is empty, he heads quickly back to the club, gait uneven, manic.

Jim opens the car door, and heads quickly towards him.

‘Cobblepot! _Cobblepot!_ Wait!’

The door is still open when he gets there, and heads inside, looking for Oswald. He follows the sound of bottles smashing. Following the trail of chaos is generally a good way to find the man, he’s found. Jim is yelling his name, but Oswald is so wound up it doesn’t seem to be registering – smashing anything he can get his hands on in what looks like a fit of rage or frustration.

When he does manage to get to him, Jim grabs him from behind in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides before he can start on the heavy glass tables and accidentally slice his hands and arms open. He’s still wheeling and twisting and frantic, and even though Jim is stronger, more solid, it still takes some considerable effort to hold him. He manages, though, and clamps him hard against him, his mouth at his ear. 

‘Easy, _easy,_ now’

After a few minutes he hears Oswald’s breathing even out, and can feel his knotted muscles relax minutely. Jim relaxes a little in return, to his own surprise, his body oddly responsive. Maybe it’s down to being starved of contact. He’s felt like a ghost for weeks, slipping through the days without any real connection with anyone. But Cobblepot’s bony ribs and elbows definitely feel solid against him, and his ridiculous hair is managing to both poke Jim in the eye and tickle his nose. 

Contrary to what Jim would have expected - given that he’s so white he’s nearly pale blue - Oswald seems to run warm, even half soaked with rain as he is, and Jim’s body is stealing heat from his where they’re pressed chest to back – chasing the cold from his bones. He loosens his grip slowly, very slowly, just in case Cobblepot is still in the mood to do some damage.

When he finally releases him, and lets his hands drop to his side, Oswald pulls away and turns sharply to face him. He’s trying in vain for that blank look, Jim can tell, but he’s too high-strung and too distressed right now, and his eyes are darting over Jim’s face erratically, trying to read him, with a confused frown creasing his forehead. Jim’s not sure why, but actual honest to God interaction with him feels like releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, chin jutted defiantly but voice wavering.

Jim sighs. ‘There have been four break-ins at this club in three weeks. This club is known to be criminally… significant. It warranted further investigation. I was maintaining surveillance’.

Oswald rubs his hand over his eyes – like this is all too much information to take in.

Jim’s mouth opens before his better judgment can catch up. ‘You look terrible’

Oswald drops his hand and stares resentfully at him. ‘You don’t look much better.’

Jim can’t argue with that. ‘I’ve been busy’

‘As have I.’

They stand staring at each other, and it’s only then that Jim notices Gabe hovering in the doorway. Oswald’s eyes follow his, and he turns.

‘Another one, boss?’

Oswald laughs mirthlessly. ‘As you can see. My frustration may have led me to… overreact.’ He shakes his head. You may as well go home, Gabriel. We can deal with this in the morning.’

Jim watches the man retreat down the hallway.

‘How’d he know…?’

‘Gabriel stays in the apartment above the restaurant across the street. It means he’s always close at hand.’

The silence grows between them. Jim glances at the shattered bottles and glasses on the floor, and then up at Oswald. He takes a couple of steps towards him, looks more carefully for any sparks that would reveal shards of glass in his hair or clothes.

‘No cuts?’

Oswald backs away from him distrustfully. It stings more than it should.

‘Disappointed? Hoping I’d accidentally nicked an artery and solved a problem for you?’

Jim’s head jerks back. It feels like someone has just landed a solid punch to his jaw.

 _‘What?!’_

Oswald’s tone is defiant, unapologetic. ‘Well – your life would be easier without me – you’ve said it before. You’ve not got the stomach to do it yourself, though. You’d prefer an accident. Or Maroni doing the job for you.’

Jim’s head is reeling. ‘What the hell are you talking about?!’ 

Oswald’s face is quivering with long-pent-up emotion, and when he speaks, the tension is making his voice shake – the fluency and violence with which he is spitting the words telling Jim they’ve been festering at the back of his head for a long time.

‘Your missed opportunity at the warehouse. You would have _left me there_ for Maroni – until I called in my favour. You _knew_ what Maroni would do to me – you’d already heard him say he would cut off my _head_ and send it to Falcone… ’

‘I wasn’t going to leave you! I was trying to think of how to get everyone the hell out of there! For God’s sake – if I’d left you I’ve have been an accessory to murder!’ 

Oswald’s eyes widen and his hands are clenched by his side. Jim realises an instant too late that this is not _exactly_ what Oswald would have wanted to hear – but his head is buzzing after weeks of nothing but numb single-mindedness, and right now he feels too flayed by his accusation to add that he would not have abandoned him, anyway – prefers to hurt him in return instead. 

‘Maybe that wouldn’t have bothered you so much, _Detective_ – your good friend Falcone could have made it disappear!’ 

Jim shakes his head incredulously. ‘So, I’d have left you to be _murdered_ and then let Falcone clean it up for me? What does that say about you and your precious judgment, then – thought I was the only good man left in Gotham?’ 

Oswald is visibly trembling now, with rage, he guesses, and Jim pushes his advantage. 

‘You want me to prove I wasn’t going to leave you there - I can prove it. I still owe you a favour. Happy?’ 

Oswald’s jaw drops. He manages to choke out a couple of words. 'I... _what?'_

Jim takes a step towards him, utterly infuriated. 

‘I would never have fucking left you there for Maroni anyway – so the favour you called in doesn’t count. I – Jim Gordon – still owe you – Oswald goddamned Cobblepot – one favour. You want it in writing?’ 

Oswald’s mouth opens and closes. ‘I…I…’ 

Jim feels a fleeting sense of triumph in managing to leave him speechless, but he needs to be out of there, needs to clear his head. 

‘I’ll be back tomorrow to take formal statements. _Again’_

Oswald just stands there, pale and staring, and at a loss for words, for once. Jim turns deliberately and strides out into the street. 

** 

When he gets home, he lets the door click shut behind him, and turning his back on it, lets himself slide down until he hits the floor with a bump. He stares in front of him. Despised at work, screwed up the few good working relationships he had, and an empty apartment every night. He’s not quite sure why the knowledge that Oswald Cobblepot believed that he had it in him to leave him to die should feel like the knock-out punch – but it does. He feels bruised. 

** 

After Jim has left, Oswald shifts his weight awkwardly. He’s cold, after running out into the rain like that, and he rubs his arms absently – only to wince when a piece of glass cuts into his palm. For some reason, this makes tears of self-pity well up. 

Jim always did have the knack of knocking him off-balance. The man’s head had jerked back as if he had been punched when Oswald had accused him of wanting him dead, and furious as he had been, as much as he wanted to teach him a lesson, make him apologise – seeing him flinch still made Oswald flinch, too. 

He should feel better knowing that Jim wouldn’t have left him, and he does believe him, now he’s said it - it had been his essential lawfulness that had saved him in the first place, after all, when Oswald had bet he wouldn’t kill him. They were _strangers_ then, though – but they hadn’t been at the warehouse – and for some reason the fact that it had still only been obedience to the letter of the law that would have saved him, no personal impulse at all, no genuine care – it all made Oswald feel so, so tired. 

Picking his way awkwardly through the mess, he headed slowly to bed, head bowed. 


	9. Chapter 9

Jim woke later than usual the next morning, thanks to the debacle of the previous night. Squinting crossly at his alarm, he slapped it off his bedside table. He could forgo the gym this morning – just once.

When he arrives at work, he arrives at the same time as Harvey for the first time in weeks.

 _‘Well._ What’s this? Arriving on time – instead of an hour early? Something wrong with you Jim? You dying, or something? Or did you have a wild night of passion? My money’s on dying.’

Jim rolls his eyes.

‘I staked out Cobblepot’s club last night.’

‘And?’

‘Repeat performance – but I was in the street, and there was no-one there’

‘Inside job, then. What’s he up to?’

Jim thinks of Oswald staggering blindly between tables, shattering everything he could get his hands on, and shakes his head decidedly.

‘No. Whatever it is – it’s not him’

Harvey raises his eyebrows. ‘You very sure about that, Jimbo? I know you two have some kind of…’

‘We don’t have some kind of anything’ says Jim, shortly. ‘I know it’s not him’

Harvey holds his hands up – ‘I bow to your superior knowledge of the little freak-show.’

Jim ignores that. ‘I was thinking we could ask Ed to come with us’

‘There’s no body, unless you want to provide one – what do you want him to do?’

‘I went over that place with a fine tooth comb. I still must have missed something. Ed thinks sideways. Maybe he’ll see something.’

Harvey snorts. ‘Don’t tell him that – he’ll be even more of a pain in the ass than he is now if he thinks we listen to him.’ There’s no real spite in his words, though. Habit. 

**

They arrive at the club at 10am. Ed is keen to get to work, eyes darting everywhere once they get out the car, but Harvey pulls him back towards the main door.

‘Unless you want to explain to some very unpleasant men why you’re hanging around here, we’d better let them know we’re here and who the hell you are.’

When they get inside, there is no trace of last night’s damage – everything pristine and in perfect order. 

The same is not true of Cobblepot, though – on whom last night is plainly visible. He’s talking to Gabe and Butch and a couple of the bar staff. Jim can see from here that he’s pasty white, except for scattered little specks of red where he managed to spray himself with glass. His under eyes are so dark they look bruised. As they approach, he turns to face them, eyes skittering away from Jim to look at Harvey, and then suspiciously at Ed.

‘Detective Bullock! Good to see you.’

‘Yeah – you too, Butch. How’s life?’

Jim clears his throat and cuts in. 

‘This is a colleague of ours – a forensic specialist’. Harvey sighs resignedly, and he can practically hear Ed grinning behind him. ‘He’s going to take a look – see what we’ve missed.’ 

Oswald still looks suspicious. 

‘He’s completely trustworthy’ says Jim. Oswald’s eyes flick meaningfully to his face at that, resentment lurking behind them at the mention of the word trust. Jim frowns. If _anyone_ has grounds to feel resentful this morning, then it’s him, after what Cobblepot accused him of last night. He only realises they’ve been glaring at each other when Harvey taps his hand against the bar to break the tension and get attention.

‘OK – Nygma, you go do… whatever the hell it is you do. I’ll talk to Butch and these guys. Jim – you can question Cobblepot. Again.’

Jim notices that Oswald’s staff look to him before they act on Bullock’s words. He gives a slight nod of assent, before glancing at Jim and gesturing towards his office. 

‘I’ve met that man before’ Oswald says, as the door closes behind them.

‘Ed? At the precinct?’

‘He asked me a riddle, and told me some nonsense piece of trivia.’

‘Yeah – he’ll do that. He’s good at his job though – if there’s something here to find, he’ll find it.’

An awkward silence settles over them – last night hanging in the air.

‘Just superficial…?’ asks Jim, tapping his cheek and nodding to Oswald’s face. Oswald touches his fingers to the cuts on his cheek and nods, his eyes on the floor. God, this is awkward. Business. Talk business. He sits down in the chair oppose Cobblepot.

‘I think someone wants to scare you. Knock you off-balance. Nothing taken or destroyed – just telling you over and over that they can get in here whenever they feel like it.’

Oswald is breathing faster, his expression raw – and Jim knows he was right at the beginning before he started second guessing himself, his gut instinct _was_ right. He’s genuinely scared.

Jim leans forward in his chair. ‘Tell me who would want to do this to you.’

Oswald smiles bitterly. ‘Everyone. I’m there to be toppled.’

Jim grimaces. ‘Aren’t there alliances, agreements you can make…?’ He deliberately keeps it vague, doesn’t want information that he would have to investigate.

‘Yes – but this is a dangerous point. Everything needs to calm down, first. I can’t appear weak.’

‘How is your mother?’ asks Jim suddenly, thinking of possible weak points. Oswald blinks.

‘She’s in good health, thank-you for asking.’ His response is automatic, and if the atmosphere in the room had been lighter, Jim might almost have been amused by that – ingrained manners evidently kicking in. ‘I sent her to stay with an old neighbour for a while – sent two of my best men after her to watch over her.’

Jim frowns. ‘I could have arranged protection, if you’d…’ _If you’d asked me._ But Oswald hasn’t trusted him enough to do that, it seems, and again they’re left staring at each other, nursing their respective wounds in silence.

Jim feels a palpable sense of relief when there’s a knock on the office door, and Gabe sticks his head round.

‘Boss – you should come see what that skinny kid found’

**

Ed is waiting outside, bouncing on his heels with smugness at whatever grand discovery he’s made. He’s dragging Jim along, babbling something about the date of construction of the building, and Jim glances back briefly while he chatters to see whether Cobblepot is keeping up with Ed’s pace. They’re heading towards the basement.

‘The cellar?’ says Oswald. ‘There’s nothing down here. It’s been checked already’

Ed laughs excitedly. ‘No – not _in_ the cellar. What’s…’

 _‘Ed’_ says Jim, a note of warning in his voice. He doesn’t imagine Cobblepot would have much patience for his riddles. They finally arrive at the back wall, where Butch, Harvey and Gabe are waiting. They step aside to let Jim see his grand discovery: a false panel in the wall that leads to a tunnel stretching God knows how long.

‘A speakeasy tunnel. An old speakeasy tunnel.’ 

Jim feels a satisfied grin stretch his face at finally getting an answer to at least part of the problem, and turns automatically to see Oswald’s response. There’s a smile of sheer relief on his face, and Jim’s own grin widens to see it – honestly pleased for the first time in weeks. Oswald glances quickly in turn to him – but there’s still too much awkwardness, and their smiles both fade quickly.

Ed pipes up. ‘Properly speaking, it’s a service tunnel. They were just repurposed during prohibition.’

Gabe shrugs. ‘So – we follow this to the end, and we’ll find the guy we’re looking for?’

Ed shakes his head vigorously.

‘Oh, no, no. This is likely to stretch for miles, and with multiple entry and exit points – as I said, it’s really a service tunnel that was used to funnel alcohol to speakeasies. Or let customers make a quick getaway.’

‘So what now?’ asks Butch. ‘We keep a look-out, wait ‘til this guy comes knocking?’

‘Sounds like a plan to me’ agrees Harvey.

‘ _We_ come back next time this guy’s due and keep a look-out’ says Jim sternly – gesturing to him and Harvey. ‘Then we arrest him and question him. If it follows the same pattern – then it’ll happen five nights from now. In the meantime, you should close it up like it was before, and don’t change anything in your usual routine – don’t spook him and give him any reason to suspect we know about this. I’ll come back in a couple of days to check over the layout down here, see if he’s visited again.’

**

After they’ve all left, Oswald sits alone at one of the tables – letting the noise from the audition on stage wash over him. Understanding _how_ someone has been getting in without being spotted has lifted some of the burden from his shoulders, although he finds his blood still runs cold at the idea of someone walking round here without his knowledge, without his permission. 

His brow creases as his mind turns to Jim, who had been instrumental in removing some of that burden. He fidgets irritatedly in his chair. He would _not_ have saved him from Maroni out of friendship. But then, he had made the effort to turn up with extra colleagues in tow to get to the bottom of these break-ins. And offered to help his mother. And looked genuinely happy to have solved at least part of his problem. It _looks_ like friendship to him. But then, Oswald supposes, he is not exactly experienced in that subject.

**

When Jim gets back to his apartment that night he’s still rather be someplace else, but there’s not quite the same feeling of returning to a cell. It’s been the first day in a long time that he’s not felt like a lone wolf. Harvey and Ed were both willing to help him out, and without much persuading. Or any persuading, in Ed’s case. The car ride back to the precinct had almost felt friendly. At least, until Harvey threatened to put Ed in the trunk if he didn’t stop giving them an overview of prohibition in Gotham.

When Jim gets out of the shower before going to bed, he notices in the mirror that some faint bruises have bloomed on his ribs – a memento of Oswald’s flailing elbows when he’d grabbed him. His fingers brush them lightly. They should annoy him, but the evidence of human connection comforts him – he’s here, alive, living, breathing – with tangible links to the world that aren’t just cases cleared and arrest statistics.

Later, he rolls on to his stomach as he’s dropping off, and feels a jabbing ache from the bruises. His dreams that night are heated and blurry, and he is quick to forget them in the morning.


	10. Chapter 10

Two days later, Oswald is sitting at a table in the still and empty club. It’s 8am, much too early for any of the staff to be in yet. His sleep has improved a little, since they’ve figured how the club is being accessed, but it’s still hopelessly erratic, and so when he had awoken at 7 – _hideously_ early though that is for a nightclub owner – he had simply got up, got dressed, and come downstairs.

He’s got tea in front of him – the coffeepot still conspicuously absent – and is leafing through the morning paper. His grasping mind seizes on names, places, details, looks for patterns, connections, and then discards them again. Reading the morning paper in Gotham is less about what's actually printed, and more about reading between the lines, listening for silences. He will have the opportunity to turn his mind to these higher matters later.

Finished with the paper, he leans back contemplatively in his chair. His eyes flicker round the room and land eventually on the little door that leads down to the cellar. His fingers tap compulsively on the table. There is a tight ball of rage lodged in his chest that longs to march down those stairs, open the hidden door, and lie in wait himself with his switchblade. But Jim was insistent, and he knows that he’s right – a change in routine could prove fatal.

He frowns at the thought of Jim. Oswald is instinctively distrustful and in a way, it had been reassuring to have that habit proved right by Jim’s betrayal. Miserable, but reassuring. But now Oswald isn’t so sure, again. He’s used to placing complete trust his own ability to read any situation, to divine motivations that sometimes people aren’t even aware they have. This new state of affairs makes him feel out of control, like he’s working blindfold.

His tapping fingers still for a moment as a way of taking back a little, just a _little_ , control occurs to him. Jim had said he would come back and check the layout today or tomorrow – he and Bullock will be waiting in the dark, after all. 

He could, he supposes, call him now. If he called him now, told him that this was the most convenient time – probably the safest time, too – well, then – that would put him back in charge, wouldn’t it? 

He dials the number quickly, before he has the chance to analyse his actions too closely.

‘Cobblepot. Something wrong?’

He can’t quite decide how to address him – going back to Detective Gordon after recent events would just sound silly, but he's still in too much of a knot of confusion and resentment for the casual friendliness of 'Jim' – and so he side-steps this tricky issue.

‘You said that you would like to check the lay-out of the cellar. There are no employees here, yet, and I have no meetings – so thought this time might be appropriate.’

There. Calm, reasonable. Just slightly cool.

‘Good idea’

The spontaneous little rush of happiness he feels at this praise rather squashes the pride he felt a moment ago at his cool detachment. He takes a moment to recover. When he speaks, his annoyance keeps his tone reasonably clipped.

‘I shall see you shortly, then.’

He ends the call before Jim can respond.

**

Jim arrives rather sooner than Oswald expected. He had been rearranging some of the bottles behind the bar, exacting about every detail of his establishment, and he is not only without his jacket, but his shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbow. Ruffled, he nevertheless manages to greet Jim smoothly as he hears him approach the bar, determinedly keeping his attention on rearranging the glasses.

‘Thank-you for coming so promptly.’

Jim’s footsteps slow as he nears him. ‘You seem to be busy.'

‘No, no – just attention to detail. So important.'

He turns. Jim is standing fairly close, watching him work. His attention is arrested by a bruise on Jim’s cheek.

‘What happened?’

Oswald instinctively takes a step closer, but manages to catch himself before he can raise a hand to tilt Jim’s head for a better look. A little tingle runs through his hand anyway, and the suppressed impulse makes it tremor minutely. 

‘Couple of idiots brawling in the drunk tank. One was coming off way worse. Split it up. Uniform would’ve left it – but the guy looked terrible…’ Jim shakes his head, frowning at the memory.

Oswald stares at the bruise, exasperated by Jim’s impeccable ability to frustrate his plans. It is very difficult to analyse his behaviour through a lens of icy detachment when he insists on being kind and decent.

Jim’s own hand comes up to touch the bruise lightly. ‘It’s nothing, really.’ He gives him an awkward half-smile, acknowledging the concern, embarrassed by the attention.

Oswald feels a distinct sense of defeat.

‘Shall we go to the cellar, then?’

**

Oswald suppresses a shiver as Jim looks round. They’ve left the door at the top of the stairs open to let a little light in – Jim is being cautious, doesn’t want the lights on down here, just in case. His eyes flick from shadow to shadow, and the tension in his jaw makes it ache. When this is over, he’ll have to find some way to exorcise the fear from this room.

‘You OK?’ Jim’s sharp eyes have noticed his discomfort, apparently, caught it as he scans the cellar’s layout.

‘Yes’ he lies. ‘I’ll just be pleased to have this matter resolved.’

‘Well, hopefully we can start to do that.’ Jim voice sounds distracted, before he takes a final look round and turns to him, satisfied. ‘I think I’ve got a sense of the place now.’

Relieved to get out of there, Oswald eagerly heads for the stairs. In his haste, he stumbles slightly, almost missing a step. A steadying hand is automatically at his elbow, waits patiently until he rights himself again. 

‘Careful.’

Oswald only manages a tight nod in response.

** 

When Jim gets back to the station, there is a coffee and something fantastically greasy looking on his desk. His stomach grumbles in anticipation as he reaches for the food.

‘You’re welcome.’

‘Thanks, Harvey’ he says, round a mouthful of burger.

‘You got that place scoped out, then?’

‘Yep. The layout’s easy. I’ll sketch it for you to have a look at. We’ll be ready.’

‘You’ve been back in the speakeasy tunnel?’ Ed’s voice pipes up seemingly out of nowhere. He seems unable to shake the habit of suddenly appearing at either one of their shoulders, no matter how many times Harvey snaps at him. ‘I’d like to have another look. I’ve been doing some reading - it’s fascinating, really… ’

‘No, _no_ \- you are not _having another look’_ interrupts Harvey. ‘It’s a mob club, and Cobblepot is damn dangerous. You will stay the hell away.’ 

‘Detective Gordon went back’ says Ed, his tone slightly sulky.

‘S’different’ says Jim, absently, still chewing on his burger, glancing over files on his desk.

‘How?’

Harvey sighs. ‘Did you save Cobblepot’s life? Are you blue-eyed and handsome? Does he have a crush on you?’

Jim’s head snaps up and he swallows the last of his lunch hurriedly. _‘Harvey’_

Ed is wide-eyed with interest.

‘C’mon now, Jimbo – you know it’s true. Did he offer to kiss your bruise all better?’

Jim feels a prickling, uncomfortable heat spread up his spine. ‘Ed. Would you be able to get me the autopsy notes on that cold case I mentioned from last year?’

Ed is still wide-eyed, but he enjoys being useful more than he enjoys gossip, and he heads down to the archives with alacrity. 

Ed gone, Jim casts Harvey a sternly disapproving look. Harvey stares in smug amusement, completely unruffled by this.

Jim settles down to work, and does not think about Cobblepot’s hand twitching when he saw his bruised face.


	11. Chapter 11

Oswald is leaning against the bar, watching the evening unfold. The cellar remains just as Jim left it two days ago - the false wall has been carefully concealed again, in preparation for the night when Jim and Bullock will stand watch – waiting to see who emerges. 

Oswald drums his fingers against the glass in his hand. He is not convinced of how productive this will be. Anyone who had been given the thankless task of breaking into a mob-run club with a high risk of discovery must not be very valuable. A pawn, at best. And probably not one who would hold much high-value information. And even if he did, Oswald has more faith in his ability with a switchblade to extract that information than he does in Jim’s ability to get at the truth, shackled as he is by the letter of the law.

Still, he’s grateful, he really is, to have been given the means to feel more in control again. He raises the glass slightly, in a silent salute to that new control, but stops short of drinking when he sees an entirely unwelcome figure enter.

‘Oswald, my boy’

Vaccaro. Wonderful. Just as his mood had started to improve.

‘Don Vaccaro. I’m honoured that you would choose to visit my establishment. Champagne?’

Vaccaro smiles, and pats him on the shoulder. Oswald fights the urge to stiffen indignantly. 

‘I have brought you something even better. The wine I promised you.’

Oswald plasters a look of pleased surprise to his face, and gestures to the bartender to bring two glasses. There is a pause when the wine has been poured and the two men raise their glasses – a test, Oswald knows – of trust. He doesn’t trust Vaccaro one inch, but he senses that Vaccaro is enjoying watching Oswald feign respect for him far too much to end it with an abrupt poisoning.

‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’

Vaccaro shrugs. 

‘I had heard you had done wonderful things with the place. And I can see it’s true.’

Oswald wonders for a moment who had told him that he had worked wonders with the place, but takes care not to let his attention wander. He shakes his head, smiles self-deprecatingly.

‘You’re too kind.’

Vaccaro raises a hand. ‘Not at all. I’ve been in our business for many years, many years, and I can recognise achievement when I see it – Carmine recognised it in you, said you must have Sicilian blood in you somewhere…'

Oswald starts slightly at the mention of Falcone, but Vaccaro waves a dismissive hand.

‘Please – Oswald, we all recognise that business is business. If anything, I’m glad to see that Carmine’s successor is a worthy talent.’ He reaches out and lays a hand on Oswald’s shoulder. ‘As I said, Sicilian blood in you – with your instinct for business, and your care for your mother. He said you had been unfortunate enough to lose your father, a terrible blow for any man. I can assure you that he would be proud of what you’ve achieved here.’

He sits back, smiling benignly. 

Oswald affects a watery smile, and keeps his eyes trained on the table for a moment, as if he does not want Vaccaro to see how affected he is. He wonders, if he is convincing enough, whether the poisonous old man will just _leave,_ feeling he’s achieved whatever he hoped for by coming here. Aggravating him, probably. 

Happily, he is convinced, and he does leave - with Oswald calling after him that he hopes he will visit again. As soon as Butch heads back in and reports that the car has definitely left, Oswald picks up the bottles Vaccaro left in a fit of ill-temper, and heads towards the kitchens to pour them all down the drain – which will most definitely lift his mood.

**

Jim decides, on his way home from work – at a normal time, for once - to stop by and check that everything had been left undisturbed in the cellar, as he had asked. He suspects that Cobblepot probably thinks his interrogation techniques are far superior to Jim’s – and guesses that he is more than eager to get his hands on whoever had been foolish enough to invade his territory. He hopes a friendly visit, or warning visit, or whatever you want to call it, will stave that off.

When he arrives, though, he can’t see Cobblepot in the crowd. He scans the packed room until he spots Gabe, looming above everyone else, and gives him a questioning look. Gabe waves him towards a door behind the bar and nods – telling him to head in.

When he does, he blinks, after the dim lighting of the club, to find himself in a large, brightly-lit kitchen. It doesn’t seem to be in use, though – neither Mooney nor Oswald apparently keen on expanding the bar into a restaurant. 

When he walks a little further in, he sees Oswald, his back to him, busily pouring bottles of red wine into the sink, the liquid glugging noisily as it swirled down the drain.

‘What are you doing?’

Oswald startles and turns, setting the bottles back down on the counter. Jim watches his face keenly, wondering what reaction he’ll get from him this time. Oswald’s eyes flicker and settle on something that looks reasonably open, not too wary. It’s an improvement, anyhow.

‘I had a _friendly_ visit from a colleague I find…objectionable. He brought me _this.’_ Oswald casts a sneer at the bottles on the counter. ‘I am now disposing of _this.’_

Jim raises his eyebrows. ‘Isn’t that a little extreme?’

Oswald snorts contemptuously. ‘You haven’t met him. He’s so… condescending. And to _me!’_ He taps his chest, clearly insulted that someone would dare patronise someone as important as him. 

Jim watches him. He’d never admit it, but he’s entertained by these theatrics, for once. Maybe it’s after visits with nothing but chilly, remote politeness. Until those recent fireworks, of course, with them both spitting accusations at each other. They both seemed reluctant to revisit that openly, though, each cautiously content with slightly, _very_ slightly, more amiable interactions.

Oswald is still talking animatedly. ‘And all those paternal affectations of his. _My boy._ Patting my shoulder. Telling me how 'proud my father would be' – _ugh’_

Jim tilts his head. ‘He’s insincere?’

For a moment, just a moment, Oswald smiles indulgently at him. _‘Jim._ Really. He’s testing for weak points – and he’s too heavy-handed by far. The mob uses the language of family for a reason – it’s powerful.’ He shrugs. ‘Vaccaro likes to play up his gentle fatherly image, but he’d love to see me dead: I told you – I’m a target for everyone. Not one of them would hesitate to put a knife in my back.’ 

Jim knows how that feels – looking out over a sea of unsmiling colleagues every day at work, every one of whom – with two or three exceptions – would be more than happy to hear he’d been taken out in the line of duty. It wears you down. Makes you feel lonely. 

He realises suddenly that’s what Oswald must have thought of _him_ , thought it for _weeks,_ that his death would have been welcome to him. And although he’s not clear, exactly, what Oswald is to him – he knows Oswald thinks of him as a friend. Or used to, at least. It must have hurt like hell.

Maybe that’s what impels him to walk towards Oswald and, standing beside him, to lift one of the bottles from the counter, and start pouring it down the drain. There’s a beat when Oswald stands stock-still, and Jim tenses, wondering how he will react - but then Oswald turns wordlessly, picks up another bottle, and joins him. They’re close enough that their arms brush as they work, but he doesn't mind it. 

**

Oswald sets his account books to one side, pulls the quilt from his bed, and heads for the couch. Lying in bed night after night without getting any sleep was starting to drive him crazy – so he had taken to sleeping, or at least trying to, on the couch. It’s not _much_ better, but he finds he can at least doze there with a book in his lap. In this particular instance, a book of military strategy.

He swings his leg up carefully and settles back against the pillow. The book remains unopened in his lap, though, his hands smoothing absently over the leather, while he replays Jim’s rather strange visit in his head. He’s not quite sure what changed in that room, but something did, something _shifted._ Helping him pour Vaccaro’s wine down the sink had been an oddly sweet gesture, one that had made his chest ache when he realised what he was doing.

He wants, so _very_ badly, to believe that he had been mistaken, that Jim would never have left him in the warehouse – not just because he is a lawful man, a decent man – but because he is his friend, and wants to keep him safe. But then, Jim didn’t say that – and Oswald is wary of being burned again, of _wanting_ so desperately that he sees things that aren’t there.

Puzzling over Jim’s behaviour makes his eyelids droop, and he falls into a fitful doze.


	12. Chapter 12

Jim has a shorter shift than usual today. It’s only two days now until they wait in the cellar of the club to see what the cat will drag in, and he’d decided to take a couple of hours from the mountain of overtime he’s built up and give himself a little break – make sure he’s sharp and alert for that night, whatever it brings.

He’s checking over some files before he leaves for the day, dragging his heels a little – time off feels _unnatural_ \- making sure he’s not left anything half-done. Harvey’s voice cuts in, distracting him from his task.

‘So – what are you doing with some free time? Polishing your shoes? Sit-ups? Correcting all the spelling mistakes in your case files?’

Jim elects to ignore that assessment of his character – skating a little too close to the truth as it does. He answers without looking up.

‘Lunch with Falcone’

Harvey’s jaw drops. ‘You’ve been meeting with Falcone?’

Jim shrugs dismissively, mildly irritated by Harvey’s tone.

‘So? There’s no harm in it – not now he’s left the city, has no links or interests anymore. He’s an old man with no family. He likes to talk about my father.’

Harvey snorts. ‘I bet he does.’

Jim stands up, and makes to get ready to leave. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Jim’, Harvey’s tone is conciliatory, and he gestures for him to sit back down, drags his own chair over to his desk.

‘I know that your old man died when you were young. I know you found things out about him you probably wish you didn’t know.’

Jim’s eyes flicker away from him and settle obstinately on the corner of the room. Harvey sighs.

‘Look, Jim – you’ve got a blind spot there – is all I’m saying. Maybe Falcone does just want to talk about the old days, maybe he thinks he’s paying some debt to your dad by giving you advice. Or maybe it’s something else, and he knows that talking about your old man makes you loosen off a little.’ He taps the desk in front of Jim. ‘I’m just saying, think about it. Be careful.’

Jim’s not sure he agrees with Harvey’s assessment – it’s not like Falcone has been demanding classified information at lunch, after all – but he’s grateful that he cares enough to bother to share it with him at all. He rubs at his jaw, and nods slowly. ‘Maybe’

**

Falcone takes a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet with a flourish and a smile.

‘Your father’s favourite’

Jim smiles. ‘I really shouldn’t.’

‘A half measure, James – just a taste, more than anything.’

Jim acquiesces for once and reaches out for the glass. Falcone sits opposite him.

‘You’re looking well, James, more relaxed than you’ve been of late.’

‘Harvey took me out for a couple of drinks. Said I’d been working too hard. It’s important to keep working relationships amicable.’

It had been surprisingly pleasant, actually. They had taken Ed along with them. He was easier to handle with a couple of drinks in him, or maybe Jim found him easier after he had had a couple of drinks – he wasn’t sure which. He’d apparently been pining for months after some woman who worked at the station. Harvey was deeply unimpressed by this behaviour, and promised to hook him up with a friend of the Duchess. Ed looked equal parts terrified and eager. Jim grins thinking about it.

Falcone smiles. ‘And your… less than amicable relationships? How is our mutual acquaintance these days?’

Jim takes a moment before he replies. ‘The stake-outs have been… unproductive.’ He finds, strangely, that he is reluctant to give too much detail. He’s doesn’t buy Harvey’s theory – Falcone seems happily retired, to him - but he’d never totally discount his partner’s instincts. They’ve saved his neck more than once. 

And besides that, there’s an odd tugging at his conscience that’s bothering him – one that hadn’t been there before – at the idea of discussing Oswald with Falcone. A memory pops into his head, of standing elbow to elbow in that empty kitchen with him, pouring wine down the drain in an oddly comfortable silence. It’s only now it occurs to him that he had maybe lingered over that task longer than was strictly necessary. 

He puts that unsettling thought to one side and considers his words carefully, offering his thoughts on the case, as opposed to the man himself.

‘I think Cobblepot has enough enemies who’d like to see him rattled that he might not be responsible for this. If that’s the case, then I’ll find them.’ 

Falcone raises his glass to him. ‘I have no doubt that you will.’

**

Oswald closes the door to his private rooms with some relief. Tomorrow night. Tomorrow they will sit and wait for whoever has had the gall to disturb his sleep and threaten his position for weeks. He feels a somewhat shark-like grin stretch his face at the thought of it. He’s still dubious that they will accomplish much - but still, to be able to put a human face to the nameless threat will be a comfort.

He sighs and turns to walk towards the couch, but as he steps away from the door his sharp hearing picks up a noise from downstairs. He frowns. It’s probably nothing – but… what if the pattern has changed for some reason? What if they miss their chance? He chews his lip. He’s not willing to take that risk, not after waiting for so long.

Carefully opening the door and leaving it ajar, he silently descends the stairs.

He steps carefully into the club itself, the effort of keeping his footsteps light making his muscles in his bad leg throb. In his immediate eye line, he sees a bottle and a glass on the bar. His staff know better than to be so sloppy. A deliberate insult, then. A taunt. Rage makes his chest tight. He looks round the room, the anger making everything curiously sharp. There’s a sliver of light where there shouldn’t be.

The door to the cellar is open. 

He stills. He should turn around now and leave. Walk across the street and fetch Gabriel. Call Jim. But he suspects he’s being watched, that if he turns his back, he might be done for. And he has his shiv – he’s good with a knife. And he refuses to turn tail and run from his own place, the first place he had fought so hard to win.

He walks deliberately towards the cellar. The expectation of violence has his muscles trembling, anticipating what’s to come. He holds his breath as he descends the stairs.

As he reaches the bottom of the stairs and walks forwards a little, the cold draught tells him that the false panel has been removed and the entrance to the tunnel is open. He edges towards it, hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of his knife, blood singing in his ears. 

He’s leaning forward carefully, peering to see if there’s a discernible outline amongst the shadows when a leather-gloved hand covers his mouth and jerks his head back roughly. Another hand crushes and twists his wrist painfully, forcing him to drop his knife. 

He struggles desperately, but the assailant is much stronger, not even faltering, turning them both, and dragging Oswald fast through the fake panel into the cold damp of the speakeasy tunnel. He kicks and flails and twists, and that’s probably what makes his attacker decide to knock his head sharply off the damp stone wall. 

There’s a sharp pain in his head, lancing across his scalp, and he can feel a warm trickle of blood on his forehead. There’s laughter, too – and he tries to make it out, but a clammy wave of nausea drags through him, and the sound seems to deaden.

And then there's nothing.


	13. Chapter 13

‘Gone?!’ Jim doesn’t bother to lower his voice, doesn’t give a damn about the curious stares being sent his way. ‘What do you mean, he’s gone?’

On the other end of the line, Butch sounds panicked. ‘I mean – gone, Detective. There’s no sign of a struggle, and nothing’s been taken, but the cellar door’s open, the panel’s open, the door to his rooms upstairs is open…’

Jim curses. There are multiple exits in the service tunnel – he could be anywhere. What was he thinking? Was he lured down to the cellar somehow? Or taken from his own rooms? 

‘When?’

‘I don’t know for sure – it must’ve been during the night, after we’d shut up at 1. The cleaner comes in at 7.00.’

_‘Six hours?’_ Jim grimaces and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. ‘You use your contacts to search for him. I’ll do the same. Keep in touch with me. You call me straight away if you hear anything.’

He doesn’t wait for a response - slams the phone receiver back down, passes a hand over his mouth. 

There must have been someone in the club. Must’ve been. Not someone on the staff, he doesn’t think – Oswald is too paranoid to have missed any warning signs – so it must’ve been someone in the crowd, a guest: watching, listening, reporting back. Whoever was behind the break-ins had decided to act before they could lie in wait for them – act fast, and Cobblepot was the target.

He slams his hand down on his desk in frustration, startling Harvey, who was just getting in.

‘What’s your problem?’

Jim is already putting his coat on and heading downstairs. He calls back up.

‘Cobblepot’s gone missing. Check your sources – see if anyone knows anything, if anyone is acting suspicious. Check in with me.’

Harvey leans over the bannister and yells after him.

‘And where the hell are you going?’

Jim doesn’t look back, calls back at him over his shoulder.

‘Someone who knows all the players, knows the game.’

Harvey is yelling something else after him, but Jim can’t afford to lose any more time, and his mind is already on the road as he rushes through the door and out on to the street.

**

As he drives, jaw set and eyes fixed on his destination, Jim wonders how it would feel if he is to fail, if he is unable to find Oswald alive. He’s not a superstitious man – and he doubts very much that Cobblepot is either, cold pragmatist that he is – but there’s something, something weirdly… _inevitable_ about them, has been since they met, always circling, never quite losing sight of each other. 

If he’s… if Cobblepot is actually… _gone_ \- Jim’s mind shies away from the word – he realises, with a terrible certainty, that he would feel the absence of him sharply - and would be permanently, unfixably, off-balance. 

His hands tighten on the wheel until his knuckles turn white, and he drives faster. He’ll think about what to do with this new knowledge later. When he finds him. If he finds him. 

**

When he finally gets to Falcone’s, somehow without being pulled over for speeding, the voice at the end of the security intercom grants him entry – albeit grudgingly – since this is not his usual time or day. 

Falcone is waiting for him at the front door as he arrives, a look of concern on his face.

‘Jim, is something wrong?’

Jim holds his hands up in apology.

‘I’m sorry to come like this – but I needed your advice.’

Falcone ushers him quickly inside.

‘Of course, James. You don’t have to apologise to me. I’m happy to advise you – you know that.’

As soon as he’s inside, Jim turns quickly to face him. ‘It’s Cobblepot.’

Falcone frowns. ‘Oswald? He’s done something?’

Jim shakes his head. ‘He’s missing.’

Falcone urges Jim into his usual chair. Jim sits, but one hand rubs distractedly at the back of his neck, restless.

‘Explain, Jim.’

‘He’s not staging anything – I’m sure now - definitely. The break-ins were an outside job, someone trying to scare him: make him paranoid, screw up early – maybe even trigger another war.’

Falcone watches him carefully, listening attentively.

Jim continues. ‘Whoever’s responsible must have found out that we found out about the service tunnel – it spooked them, maybe. Or maybe something else spooked them – made them act faster.’

He rubs his hand across his mouth, frustrated, his mind running over all the possibilities. He looks up at Falcone.

‘I thought that you might have an idea of who’s got the nerve to try and pull a stunt like this?’

Falcone raises his eyebrows, rubs his jaw thoughtfully.

‘There’s very few with this kind of nerve, James – very few. It’s a bold move. It’s someone who is reasonably assured that there would be no real repercussions from Oswald’s death – that it would simply be seen as the rectification of an unfortunate mistake’

Jim feels outrage spear in his chest. ‘Unfortunate mistake? He’s a fucking human being! Christ!’

Falcone holds up a placating hand.

‘James – I understand – you’re a good man. That kind of thinking is distasteful to you.’ He pauses, considers for a moment, then shakes his head sadly. ‘Although, in some ways…’

Jim frowns. ‘What?’

‘Well. We both know Oswald is a dangerous man. An ambitious man. If he were to be… _removed_ from Gotham, it would doubtlessly make your job easier, the city safer. And if you simply can’t find him in time now – which is very possible, whoever has him will probably dispose of him fast - your hands would be clean. You wouldn’t have pulled the trigger, wouldn’t even have been an accessory. You would simply have failed to save him, despite your best efforts. Your conscience would never have to bother you at all.’ 

Jim stares at him, incredulous. ‘Is this how you and my _father_ spoke?’

Falcone smiles fondly at him. ‘James. Your father was a fine man, a moral man. But he was a pragmatist, and he understood when it was necessary to take my advice and make a difficult call.’ 

He steps forward and rests a hand on Jim’s shoulder, his face serious as he looks down at him.

‘Do you?’

Jim jerks his shoulder to shake off the weight of his hand, appalled by what he is hearing, unable and unwilling to hide the disgust on his face.

‘No. No, I don’t. And I don’t give a _damn_ what my father would have done. _I_ am not leaving Cobblepot to die God knows where. And if you won’t help me – I’ll find him on my own.’

Falcone looks regretful.

‘I see. That is unfortunate.’

He tilts his head a little towards the far corner of the room.

‘Victor?’

Jim lurches to his feet and pulls his gun reflexively, following Falcone’s eye to the corner of the room. The ornate mahogany screen that usually sits there pulls slowly, smoothly, back. Jim’s eyes are fastened to it, muscles primed, ready as it drags back… 

It stops abruptly half-way, before it is jerked back quickly the remainder of the distance to reveal a smirking Zsasz, and a bruised and gagged Oswald tied tightly to a chair.

There is an instant of intense relief, before Jim sees Oswald’s eyes widen suddenly. He’s trying to yell something at him, but his mouth is muffled by the gag.

And that’s when Jim feels a brutal slam to the back of his head, and he sees stars before everything goes black.


	14. Chapter 14

Jim opens his eyelids a crack and flicks his eyes from side to side. This movement is strangely painful, and the light is too bright, and so he closes them again quickly, wincing. The darkness is soothing.

He can’t stay there, though, there’s someone worriedly calling his name over and over, oddly distant and distorted. It won’t stop, that noise – persistent – and Jim forces his eyes open this time, and slowly – painfully - lifts his head. 

He is confused for a moment – the room is familiar, but it’s not home and it’s not work. Turning his head to the side, he sees Cobblepot is seated beside him, staring at him, green eyes wide and panicked. And then everything rushes back so quickly and vividly it almost hurts, his brain creaking back to full consciousness.

‘James. I’m pleased you’re awake.’

Falcone is standing opposite them both.

‘Your friend Oswald here was quite frantic with worry, wasn’t he, Victor?’

Zsasz is leaning against the wall behind Falcone’s left shoulder. He nods, a crooked grin on his face.

Falcone tilts his head to the side, affecting a confused expression. ‘What was it he called me again, Victor? Oh yes – “a moth-eaten old cadaver who didn’t have the good taste to know when to stay buried.”’ Falcone laughs heartily. ‘Oh, Oswald. You do have some style to you. It’s truly unfortunate that you couldn’t remember your proper station in life.’

Jim’s head is throbbing, but he feels awake enough to talk now.

‘You didn’t retire at all. You were planning a comeback, wanted the way clear.’

Falcone smiles approvingly at him. ‘You _see,_ James, I could have put an intelligent man like you to good use. If you could only have reconciled yourself to being rid of Oswald. Although, I admit, removing _both_ of you _was_ the ideal.’ He sighs. ‘The human heart is an unpredictable thing, James. I put every measure in place to ensure that you two would be at each other’s throats, either destroying each other or at least getting one of you out of the way, leaving the path conveniently clear for my timely return. But instead, here you are. Desperately concerned for each other’s safety. I assure you, I am genuinely touched.’ 

‘Very moving’ agrees Victor, pressing his hand mockingly to his heart.

‘Your father and I…’ Falcone begins. Out of the corner of Jim’s eye, he sees a flicker of movement - Oswald turning to glance at him. ‘Our arrangement was all business, we...’

Oswald sighs theatrically, cutting Falcone off, and drawing all eyes to him.

‘Yes, yes. You knew Jim’s father. I’m sure he’s bored of your tedious geriatric reminiscing by now. And all of it _so_ self-serving’

Falcone’s smile goes icy and he takes a step towards Oswald, who juts his chin defiantly – refusing to take anything back. Jim scrambles to distract him.

‘What made you act now? Why not just wait? You don’t strike me as impatient.’

Falcone stops, eyes Oswald for a moment before turning to Jim.

‘I’m a very patient man, but there’s no point in stubbornly persisting in an attack that has ceased to be effective – you’re a military man, James, you know that. I planned the break-ins to push Oswald’s paranoia to fever-pitch, suspicious boy that he is – make him lash out. He’d act rashly, make mistakes, win himself even more enemies.’

Jim sees Oswald open his mouth to complain about being called a boy, and probably win himself a few more bruises in the process, and cuts him off again.

‘And me?’

‘You, James? Not difficult. I simply encouraged your strengths until they became weaknesses. Working yourself to the bone, single-minded – a true knight Templar, no? If I couldn’t push Oswald to the point where he would try to get rid of you, then you would burn yourself out anyway. A few suggestions that Oswald was up to something, that the break-ins were actually a ruse – then you’d focus all your suspicions on already paranoid man.’

Jim closes his eyes for a moment, infuriated at how easily he was manipulated. When he opens them again, Falcone smiles at him. ‘I had hoped that these measures, added to Oswald’s... ’ he laughs, ‘… likely bruised feelings over your actions at the hospital would have led eventually to mutual destruction.’

Falcone sits down in the armchair opposite them, enjoying the sound of his own voice – Jim realises, finally, after so many weeks in his company. He glances over at Oswald, who rolls his eyes exaggeratedly back at him – no patience with Falcone’s posturing. 

‘But Oswald proved surprisingly slow to exact any real revenge on you.’ He leans forward. ‘Had it been me, James, I would have ensured you spent the rest of your career as the lowest of the low, _at the very least._ And as for you, you actually started to help him!’ He shakes his head and lets out an amused laugh. ‘Well. My dear friend Don Vaccaro let me know that Oswald seemed to be rallying – instead of helpfully falling apart, and you – you actually seemed human at lunch – not the useful husk of a man that I had become used to entertaining.’ He spreads his hands. ‘And here we are.’

Jim thinks desperately of something, anything else to ask – to delay the inevitable, but his mind has gone blank. He can feel Oswald’s hands frantically flexing where they’re bound to the chair – but there’s no way of getting loose, nor is there enough room between them to let him work on Jim’s knots.

‘You won’t get away with this.’

Falcone smiles. ‘The only person who would care enough to try and properly investigate Oswald’s death is you, James. And the only person who would seek revenge for yours is Oswald. It’s very tidy, for me, at least.’

‘That’s not true. Harvey…’

Falcone laughs. ‘Bullock? You don’t think he could be easily disposed of?’

Jim closes his mouth again. His eyes scan the room desperately. Even the large glass doors that lead out to the gardens are locked – so there’s no use yelling. 

Falcone turns and begins to walk towards Zsasz. He pauses for a minute, turns and regards Jim with an odd, considering glitter in his eyes,

‘Still… out of respect for my friendship with your father, James…’

Jim hears Oswald snort contemptuously beside him.

Falcone continues. ‘… I am willing to offer you a final chance to reprieve yourself. Victor here will drive both you and Oswald to the pier, and you will have a chance to rectify the mistake you made months ago. Put a bullet in Oswald’s head, and simply let the water take him away. I will assume control again, and you can step into your father’s shoes. You’ll be as loved and respected as he was, and we will achieve great things together.’

He tilts his head, waiting on Jim’s response. 

Jim can feel Oswald’s eyes on him. He pauses to enjoy the moment, and smiles amiably at Falcone.

‘Go fuck yourself.’

Falcone’s face darkens. Jim allows his glance to slide sideways and sees a grin on Oswald’s face that’s almost feral in its fierceness. It should alarm him, but only draws him, makes him feel conspiratorial, an answering grin pulling at the corner of his own mouth.

Falcone recovers his composure, and looks to Oswald. Stepping towards him, he rests his hand on the back of his chair and leans into his face.

‘Oswald. You’re more pragmatic than our friend here. I will make you the same offer. Take him to the pier and put him out of his misery. He was never suited to this town. You’ll be my second in command – I do respect your talents, you know that – and I’ll put them to good use. You’ll have power, influence. You’ll also be alive – which is more than you have at the moment.’

Oswald does not take a moment to consider. His expression twists venomously, and he spits in Falcone’s face.

Falcone’s face turns murderous. Straightening up, he turns to walks toward Zsasz, his voice low.

‘I think I might take care of this personally, Victor. I know you’re disappointed, but...’

Oswald turns to face him, and gives him that fierce, almost manic smile again. Their eyes are locked hard, like they have been so many times, too many times to claim innocence. And Jim, wondering at his ability to make his own life endlessly difficult, finds he can’t look away.

Falcone is patting Victor placatingly on the shoulder now, taking a gun from him, then…

All hell breaks loose. Jim can hear gunshots, and the windows shattering – sees Falcone hit and drop heavily to the floor and Zsasz crouch, covering himself from the flying glass. He’s suddenly aware that he’s toppling to the side and falling to the floor – Oswald, survival instinct sharp as ever, has pushed hard off his left foot to barrel himself and his chair into Jim – knocking them both to the floor, out of the line of fire. 

Jim cranes his neck, trying to see where Zsasz had gone – praying he’ll be predictable… yes, he has been, is striding out through the doors into the garden towards the shooters.

Jim holds his breath. There are four shots in quick succession, and then a fifth a little after. And then, silence.


	15. Chapter 15

Oswald stares desperately at the shattered doors. _Please not Zsasz, not Zsasz_ is all he can think. _Please please please._

He never imagined that he could have been so blissfully relieved to see Harvey Bullock, of all people, with Gabe and Butch following close at his heels. He exhales, and it turns into a laugh, a little hysterical sounding.

He feels warm fingers squeeze his own, rather hard. Jim’s voice, sounding gruff, but concerned.

‘Cobblepot? Oswald? Calm down. Breathe’

He laughs again. ‘I am calm, Jim, just…relieved.’

Bullock stands over them both, staring down.

‘Damn right you’re relieved. You too, Jimbo? Relieved you’ve got such a heroic partner?’

Oswald feels Jim try to twist round to look up at Bullock. 

‘How’d you find us?’

Gabe hauls Oswald and Jim upright and Butch starts untying them both. Bullock affects a thoughtful expression, rubbing at his beard.

‘Well, I thought – if I were Detective Jim Gordon, what’s the single most _dumb-assed_ thing I could do right now? I know, I’ll run off to an ex-king-pin’s house with no back-up, yelling about how my favourite snitch has gone missing. And here you are.’

Oswald rubs at his aching wrists and glares at Bullock. ‘Jim saved my _life,_ Detective…’

Bullock cuts in, ‘No, _I_ saved your life, Cobblepot. In case you didn’t notice. Jim here just got himself tied to a chair, and one hell of a lump on the back of his thick head. No heart-felt gratitude for me? What a surprise.’

_‘Harvey’_ says Jim. ‘If I admit you’re a genius, can we all go?’

Oswald walks over to where Falcone’s body lies, facedown amongst the glass. Butch joins him.

‘You’ll sleep easier – knowing he’s gone.'

Oswald nods slowly. ‘And yet, quite an act to follow.’

They glance at each other, silently acknowledging the achievements of the man while being thoroughly glad to see him dead – one of the peculiarities of their business. Turning briskly, they join the others, heading out into the night through the broken doors.

**

Trudging across the dark lawn, they finally get back to the driveway. Oswald surreptitiously leans a hand against the roof of Bullock’s car, relieved to be able to rest his leg for a moment.

‘I should come in, give a statement’ Jim is rubbing at the back of his neck, frowning.

‘You _should_ have that checked’ replies Oswald, nodding towards Jim’s head. 

Jim brushes this off. ‘I’ve had worse.’

Bullock tilts his head, eyes him carefully. ‘He’s walking and talking just fine. You feel like you want to puke, Jimbo?’

Oswald pulls a face. Why must Bullock always be so coarse?

Jim rolls his eyes. _‘No,_ Harvey, I _don’t._ Still, like I said, I should…’

Bullock cuts in. ‘Should nothing. Me and Butch’ll come up with something convincing between us on the way back that I can take into Essen, and then we can talk it over tomorrow. Guy with Falcone’s history getting taken down won’t surprise anyone. Better than letting them know he’d been playing you, anyway.’

Jim looks unhappy with this deviation from the truth, as Oswald would have expected, but he agrees nevertheless.

Butch nods over to Oswald. ‘You too, boss – you don’t want your name anywhere near this, at least not officially.’

Oswald agrees readily, having no problem deviating from the truth.

Bullock rubs his hands together. ‘Good. Now. Jim, you can take Cobblepot in your car – I’m not listening to him talk for an hour.’

Oswald ignores this jibe and glances over at Jim. ‘I’ll drive. Even if you’re not concussed, better to rest.’ Jim does not complain. In fact, as he hands the keys to Oswald, he even looks grateful.

**

The car journey back is relatively quiet. Jim dozes off and on in the passenger seat, and Oswald keeps a hawkish eye on him as well as the road, waking him up occasionally to make sure his sleep is natural, and not a result of his injury.

‘Jim.’

Jim opens his eyes, turns to look at him. ‘What?’

‘Why did you agree to meet with Falcone? I know you think he was the better…’

‘I thought he was the most _stable_ choice – right then, anyway. Status-quo, I guess.’ Jim sighs. ‘When he called the first time, he said it was just to thank me. Made sure he mentioned my father, and off I went.’ He shakes his head. ‘Jesus – what an idiot.’

‘No.’ says Oswald, sharply. _‘No._ Falcone excelled at mind games.’ He remembers vividly how he had felt when Maroni tried to turn his own mother against him. It bothers him that Falcone should have tried to take Jim’s father from him. He frowns

‘And, and… you should probably just forget whatever he said about your father, anyway. Put it from your mind. You know your own father better than Falcone ever could have.’

Jim does not immediately reply. Oswald wonders if he has dozed off, and glances quickly to the side. Jim is not asleep, though, he is awake, and he is looking at him intently. Oswald feels the back of his neck prickle.

Flustered, he turns his attention back to the road. There are a couple of minutes of awkward silence until beside him, Jim clears his throat.

‘You should know. Back at the hospital, when…’

Oswald smiles. ‘I realise – given your actions today – that it is possible that I was mistaken.’

There’s a pause. Jim’s voice is gruff. ‘I should have cleared it up sooner.’

Oswald shrugs. ‘Falcone was relying on stubbornness on both our parts. Not a bad bet, all things considered.’

He glances sideways. Jim nods agreement. Oswald smiles, and looks back to the road.

After a while, the evenness of Jim’s breathing lets him know he has fallen asleep. His mind wanders back to their conversation, to Falcone’s manipulation of Jim’s memories of his father. 

There is an ugly, ugly little suspicion lurking at the back of Oswald’s mind, that Jim’s father did not die in an accident at all, that he had simply outlived his usefulness to Don Falcone, or become a liability.

If the same suspicion ever occurs to Jim one day, then Oswald will do everything in his power to help him uncover the truth – will find anyone who was involved and punish them in ways far beyond Jim’s understanding or means. 

In the meantime, though, Oswald does not see that it would serve any purpose to disturb Jim’s peace of mind by sharing this. He files the suspicion away in the vast library of information he stores in his mind, to be recalled if Jim ever asks for it.

**

Jim starts to stir when they reach the city, looking clearer-eyed for rest.

‘You should probably stay away from the club tonight – until that tunnel can be properly sealed up. Be on the safe side’

Oswald nods. ‘I suppose. Fortunately, my mother’s apartment is empty right now. I could…’

‘We should probably come up with an alibi that’ll fit whatever the hell Harvey’s going to spin to Essen. Probably easier if you stay with me. Straighten that out.’ Jim’s tone seems carefully casual to Oswald, a practised liar.

Oswald’s eyes slide curiously to the right, but Jim is looking out the window, and Oswald cannot read his face.


	16. Chapter 16

Jim opens the door to his apartment, and gestures Oswald inside. It occurs to him that he is the first person who has actually been there, other than Jim himself. He had tended to stay at Lee’s, when they were briefly together, which he hadn’t analysed much, but she had, and had told him he was subconsciously keeping her at arm’s length.

He has tried, repeatedly, to keep the man currently looking nosily round his apartment at arm’s length – further than arm’s length, actually. He has also failed, repeatedly, to keep him at arm’s length. He wonders whether Lee would say that was subconscious, too.

Jim clears his throat. ‘Drink?’

Oswald turns, a wavering smile on his face. ‘I’d say we deserve one.’

‘Won’t argue with that.’

Jim pours a couple of glasses of whisky and sets them on the coffee table. 

He heads into the bathroom for the first aid kit. When he’s taking it from the cupboard, he catches sight of himself in the mirror, and is caught for a moment by the man he sees there. He looks himself straight in the eye. Asks himself if he’s _really_ considering what he’s considering here. 

He _knows_ what this man is, knows what he does.

He also knows that tonight he watched Oswald Cobblepot, ruthless, cynical, and self-serving, reject Falcone’s offer of safety and power, spit in the man’s face – because the price of that bargain was Jim’s life, and that price was too high.

And just as Oswald had refused, so had Jim. It didn’t matter what Falcone’s justifications were, how prettily he laid them out – Jim Gordon would not, could not, kill Oswald Cobblepot to save his own skin.

For weeks Jim had felt utterly disconnected – felt like he was slowly going numb for want of human connection. But even then this bond had still been there. It had been tangled and knotted, but it had refused to break - even when they couldn’t look at each other, even when they could only glare at each other - and eventually it had slowly tightened to drag them back to each other again.

He can’t keep ignoring that bond. As far as either one of them might sink, it’ll haul them back to some kind of steady ground – and there _must_ be some value in that, in this city, where it’s so easy to sink without a trace.

Jim sees resolution in his own eyes as he takes a final look in the mirror and flicks off the bathroom light.

The sight of Oswald Cobblepot on his sofa, glass in hand, smiling at him as he re-enters the room should be _intensely_ wrong. Unsettling. He waits for annoyance, anger, revulsion - something. But nothing arrives but a sense of being _wanted_ that grounds him, warms him. He always has had an ego, and he likes being needed. And maybe it’s not totally one-sided, either.

He sits beside him, and places the first aid box on the table. Turning, he finds Oswald has set his glass down on the table and turned to face him, hands folded neatly in his lap, waiting. An image flashed into his head of that night in the club, with a distrustful Oswald backing away from him. He hadn’t really realised how much it meant, that kind of trust, until he hadn’t had it anymore.

He begins to lightly dab antiseptic cream on his cheekbone, jawline, where there are odd little cuts and puncture wounds. Zsasz’s rings, he guesses. His fingers are lingering far too long and he’s enjoying this more than he probably should. He’s realising how hungry he’s been for touch, for physical _connection_ – and not just any connection, but for whatever _this_ connection is that seems to persist between them. He is very, very close now to crossing the line. If he just…

‘Jim?’

‘Hm?’ says Jim, absently, his eyes still on Oswald’s bruised jaw.

‘I should like to check your head injury, please. It might need butterfly stitches.’

Oswald sounds crisp, clinical, and Jim blinks at the abrupt shift in tone, lowers his hands. Maybe he’s misjudged the situation. Maybe it’s just as well that Oswald interrupted, if he was about to make a fool of himself. He clears his throat.

‘Sure’

Oswald rises from the couch and walks round the table to stand behind Jim at the end of the sofa. There is a moment of silence. Jim turns his head slightly, wondering what is happening, opens his mouth to ask, but then he feels fingertips lightly pressed to his cheekbone, gently turning his head back round, and his voice disappears and his pulse rockets.

Two sets of fingertips, now, stroking lightly over the bump on his head left by whatever the hell Falcone had hit him with. Oswald rests his thumbs lightly on the back of Jim’s neck while his fingertips trail lightly over the short hair at the back of his head. 

It’s very light, and there’s a curiosity to it. Experimental. He’s testing what Jim’s response will be without committing himself too far, just in case he’s wrong. Typically, he’s crafted himself a plausible lie, anticipating rejection, giving himself a way to save face. _Only checking for cuts and bumps, Jim, no need to be so touchy…_

Jim slowly lets his head bow forward, giving him permission to keep doing what he’s doing, and offering up the back of his neck. He can feel a tremor run through the fingers resting on his scalp, before they drag, more deliberately, down to flutter across the back of his neck and, encouraged by his sigh, to curl around his collar, resting warm knuckles lightly against his nape.

But he stops again, to Jim’s frustration. Jim thinks for a moment that he is teasing him, and heat flares low in him, but he realises suddenly that he’s waiting for a cue, that he is not sure what to do next. He thinks of Oswald gazing at him, smiling and flustered when he visited the club, and his touchy, irritable sense of pride, and several pieces fall together. 

He should probably take a step back at the realisation that Oswald has likely not done this before. Should slow down. Should reconsider in the morning, when they’re both calmer, cooler. But _shoulds_ had been killing Jim by degrees for weeks and he’s tired of them. He likes to boast that he’s no liar – and so forces himself to admit that instead this realisation excites him.

Meanwhile, Oswald has stepped away from him, walked back round the table. He sits beside him and takes a sip of his drink before he turns to face him, his face resolved.

‘I have thought of how I would like you to fulfil the favour you owe me.’

Jim feels ice water run down his spine. Surely not. Surely not after everything that happened at Falcone’s. He keeps his face blank and, tilting his head, waits to hear what he has to say. Oswald takes a breath.

‘I should very much like it if… if we could return to our _original_ terms’ His words are business-like, but there’s a wistfulness in his tone. His eyes flicker over Jim’s face, looking for something. ‘No... no favours. Just… friends.’

The knot in Jim’s chest loosens. ‘You want to use your favour to get rid of favours?’

Oswald nods decisively.

‘Yes.’ He then adds, in case Jim had somehow forgotten, ‘To be on friendly terms again’

‘As in, general courtesy?’

Oswald blinks. ‘Well…yes. I…’

Jim cuts in. ‘Concern?’

He nods, mouth slightly open, staring at Jim.

‘Saving each other’s neck when necessary?’

He smiles at that, a little breathless, now. Jim extends his hand to shake on their new agreement. Oswald takes it automatically, but instead of shaking, Jim just tightens his grip a little and looks him in the eye. 

Oswald swallows and then looks at their joined hands. There’s a quick scanning glance back up at his face – always, always trying to read the situation – searching for deception, or mockery, or a threat. 

Finding none, he looks back down at their hands and, slowly, carefully, strokes his thumb back and forth, back and forth – dragging lightly over skin and bone. Uncurling his fingers allows him to press the flat of his palm more deliberately against Jim’s own, and lets him flutter his fingertips over the inside of Jim’s wrist.

Jim watches his face as he does this – eyes intent, cheeks flushed, and mouth slightly open. He feels himself leaning closer, and it feels inevitable: always knew the city would slide under his skin somehow, and this, he could live with this – not bribes or violence or blackmail, but need and want and a bond that stubbornly refused to break no matter what they did to it. It felt clean, somehow.

Feeling him moving closer, Oswald looks up at him, and Jim sees a softness on his face – softness that was rare enough to find anywhere, never mind Gotham, and in the case of this particular man, a softness that was reserved only for him. An image flashes into his head: he’s seen this expression before – standing in the precinct, clutching an invitation. An invitation he hadn’t taken. If he turned it down again now, would it be offered again? 

He’s decided now, certain, leaning closer… but is halted by the sound of his phone. The noise is loud in the silent apartment, and they both jump. 

He reaches for it, his eyes still on Oswald, who has stood abruptly, his movements jerky, taking their empty glasses into the kitchen.

‘Yeah?’ 

‘Jim, do you have Cobblepot with you?’

Jim cursed under his breath. He should have let Harvey and Butch know.

‘Sorry, Harvey. It seemed safest right now. I’ll take him back to the club in the morning. I should have called…’

‘No skin off my nose. I’ll let Butch know. We’re enjoying some of his best scotch right now – you can tell him that from me.’

Jim grins. ‘I’ll pass it on.’

He ends the call and sets the phone down, before walking through to the kitchen. 

He’d been given a final chance to change his mind, just there. He was not going to take it. 

Oswald’s back is to him as he rinses out their glasses in the sink. His movements are still jittery, and Jim – excellent detective that he is – can think of many reasons why: frustration at the interruption, fear that Jim will change his mind, discomfort at being out of his depth. 

His shirt-sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, his long neck emphasised as he tilts his head down at the glasses, and Jim feels a long-unacknowledged hunger gnaw deep at him. They’ve reached some sort of honesty here tonight, but it’s not enough, only delaying the inevitable, and he never had any patience anyway. 

He considers his words carefully, weighs how best to make things spark again. He suddenly knows the perfect thing to say, something that he knows excites them both, that’ll act like a tease, a dare.

‘We could’ve been killed tonight’ he says, keeping his tone neutral, despite the little thrill that runs through him at the words, the danger. He watches for a response, and is not disappointed. Oswald’s head only turns a fraction, but a tremor runs through his narrow shoulders, and Jim watches his pale hands tighten on the edge of the counter. 

He’s also offering them both an excuse for doing this now, an excuse to save face tomorrow, if they choose to take it then. Heat of the moment, grabbing at life after being so close to death… but he doesn’t actually give a damn about an excuse, and he doubts Oswald does either at this point. 

He turns abruptly to face Jim. His pale eyes are piercing and manic on him, his jaw clenched. It’s a predatory look that would probably incite fear in most people, but Jim’s stomach clutches in excitement instead. He raises his chin. An invitation. A challenge.

Without warning, Oswald lurches forward, pinning Jim hard against the opposite counter and gripping his wrists tightly. Heat spikes viciously through him, and all Jim can think about is _closer_ and _more._

His hands are still pinned down – exciting him more than he cares to admit - and so he cranes his neck forward and kisses Oswald hard, nipping at his lips and pushing his tongue inside when he opens his mouth. Jim can tell from his response that he’s not done this before, but the desperate little noise from the back of his throat and the pressure against his hip tells him that he likes it, and he’s doing his level best to match Jim, all nerve and insolence as usual, refusing to cede any ground.

And as usual, Oswald overplays his hand. Dragging his lips downward, he sucks hard at the base of Jim’s neck, breathing a giddy laugh when he makes him groan. Jim decides it’s high time to pull back a little control and - wrenching his hands free - grabs him tightly by the hips, keeping him pressed against him as he pushes them both away from the counter, Oswald’s green eyes wide as he draws in a sharp breath.

Jim’s walking him backwards now, towards his bedroom, and they’re back on the pier again: eyes locked, and close enough that he can feel stuttering breath against his lips. This time, though, it’s Oswald who has his hands knotted tight in Jim’s shirtfront, greedy like he would have expected – dragging him along just as much as Jim is pushing him, same as they always are. 

Jim’s own hands are still resting on Oswald’s hips, and he presses his thumbs hard into the little hollow just beside his hip bones. There’s a hissed intake of breath, and Oswald’s head tips back.

Jim shows him no mercy, and drags teeth and tongue along his exposed neck, the broken whine this produces making Jim groan in turn.

They somehow manage to stumble to Jim’s bed. There’s an instant where they pull back to breathe and stare at each other, wide-eyed and flushed. Jim thinks of them both standing at the end of that pier again and pushes Oswald backwards, toppling after him this time. 

**

They’re both too keyed-up for anything particularly sophisticated, or slow – struggling impatiently with each other’s clothes. It’s frantic and intense, hands and mouths everywhere, and the sounds they’re making are only riling them up more. Oswald’s voice pleading and cursing in Jim’s ear seems to trickle heat down his spine, and he thinks this might actually drive him mad. They only thing that centres them both is a hunger to keep eye contact whenever they can, each with a hand knotted in the other’s hair to demand that look, that _look_ while they rock desperately against each other.

When Oswald finally comes, he damn near arches up off the bed, Jim’s name strangled and hoarse in his throat, legs hooked tightly around his waist. Jim wraps his arms hard around him, holds them clamped to each other as he shudders, brushes light kisses against his lips.

Jim isn’t far behind, though, his movements becoming jerky and erratic. Their foreheads are resting against each other, and he still has one hand on the back of Oswald’s head, knotted in his black hair. Oswald’s eyes are wide and strangely content, watching Jim with rapt attention, taking in every detail.

He starts to run his long hands up and down Jim’s back, fingertips lightly tracing his spine, and that’s what does it, tips the balance. He cries out as he comes, and Oswald pulls him down into a messy, open-mouthed kiss, arms winding round his neck, long fingers stroking over the back of his head, his shoulders.

As Jim’s heart rate starts to slow, he pulls away gently - touching a hand lightly to Oswald’s cheek as he does so – rolling onto his back. Oswald shifts onto his side and props himself up with an elbow, looking down at him.

‘Was that… was it…?’ He’s aiming for nonchalant curiosity but Jim can hear the lie in his voice. He turns towards him and smiles.

‘Very.'

Oswald smiles back, relieved. And slightly smug. He speaks again.

‘We’ll have to be discreet.’ Another lie hiding there, trying to sound confident, experienced. He’s talking like the continuation of this is a done deal – when he’s actually unsure, and way beyond the bounds of his experience, and he’s really asking Jim if this is it, if this will never happen again. Jim takes mercy on him.

‘We’ll probably argue again.’

Oswald smiles sweetly at the confirmation hiding in this comment - and, reassured, decides to settle down against his shoulder, resting a slim arm across Jim’s waist. Jim feels an ache in his chest, and suspects that Oswald isn’t the only one in over his head. His next words are flippant, to counter that ache.

‘Probably end up with a gun to our heads again, too.’

Oswald presses a kiss to his shoulder, seemingly unconcerned. ‘Occupational hazard.’

Jim’s mind wanders over all the possibilities, all the risks, all the ways this could go wrong. There’s so many candidates it takes him a minute to choose one. 

He opens his mouth to offer another suggestion, when he feels Oswald’s weight settle more heavily against his side, and his breath on the side of Jim’s neck grow slow and even. The sound of it momentarily chases the objections from Jim's mind, and he allows the long-denied sense of belonging to take hold of him.

He stretches out his arm and turns off the lamp, content to lie with a friend in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far, thank-you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. I'm more than happy to chat in the comments.
> 
> For some reason, I think art deco would appeal to Oswald. I'm thinking this for his desk:
> 
> http://image0-rubylane.s3.amazonaws.com/shops/antiquariantraders/7018.1L.jpg?73


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